


The Wiped Slate

by waterlit



Category: D.Gray-man
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Drama, Ensemble Cast, Memory Alteration, Time Travel, is it really time travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-05
Updated: 2018-09-23
Packaged: 2018-09-25 14:28:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 27,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9824525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waterlit/pseuds/waterlit
Summary: The exorcists live out mundane lives in the twenty-first century. No one remembers the danger and the ancient war. Instead, they think Allen's going insane.





	1. Chapter 1

(The 21st century)

Sometimes, Allen Walker thinks about killing himself. He wonders how it would be like to place a knife against his throat, cold blade breaking soft skin, and then to feel the rush of blood out his jugular vein with every faltering beat of his heart. Other times, he thinks about swallowing death, and going in silence to his long sleep.

No one remembers the past, now. No one remembers the danger. He is the only one left in the mire, his very existence a living hell, one foot in the present and another in the past.

When sleep comes to him, he dreams of red dawns and sorrowful sunsets, of ashes and dust. First, there is darkness, and then the sky blinks into view, fading into a silent night.

Then there is mist, and then there are monsters, rising from the valleys and the moors, their silhouettes dark against the full moon, these strange creatures wrought of steel and iron. He can remember the pain, the agony – the distorted souls calling for help, the searing pain of the Akuma bullets, the grey, crumbling skin of the dying and the ashes that paint the sky a dreary empty-black.

And then he wakes, bathed in the morning light, drenched in sweat, his heartbeat erratic and fast.

He knows, though he cannot bring himself to say it—he _knows_ that these dreams are parts of his past, things he experienced ages ago, when they were still—no, he still cannot say it. For he has always felt a stranger in this life. The lights too bright, the streets too crowded, the mundane habits and happenings too strange, his memories too hazy. Something has always itched at the back of his mind, a stray thought scratching against the base of his skull. 

Dreams.

Memories.

And now, these lurking nightmares.

Lenalee tells him, _why don't you visit a psychiatrist?_ And she should know, for she works under the auspices of a distinguished mental health provider. But Allen says, _no, no_ , always _no_ , for who could understand such twisted dreams? Who might understand how real the dreams are, how he wakes with terror in his blood and the nightmares that waking cannot chase away, still coursing through the routine of his daily life?

For there was a war. The dreams tell him that much.

There was a war, and he fought in in it, lifetimes ago. Was it lifetimes ago? It seems right to believe so, and yet Allen cannot shake off the feeling that he is still in the same lifetime, still the same person who fought those metal monsters in the streets of a Victorian city. And yet, how could it be?

Then one day the answers come in the prism of his demented sleep. In the midst of carnage, he stands outside the destroyed headquarters, watching as the blood-red moon shivers in the grey dawn. The crumbling towers reach into the firmament, gothic and broken, and the Earl bears down on the host of the church.

Lightning flares—the Earl raises his sword—the battlefield disappears, winks out like the remnants of a distended star.

So, the story is this: one day, more than a century ago, Allen closed his eyes, and woke up the next day, a hundred years older and yet none the wiser.

Two years after he awoke in this strange world, with its fast automobiles and its tall glass buildings, with its cold people and surreal landscape, he still has no idea how he ended up in a strange century, with no Akuma in sight. Where are the monsters hiding now? Where is the blood, the bullets, the death throes of a rotten world?

No one else remembers.

None of his friends—Lenalee, Lavi, Kanda—heed his warnings about the impending battle.

But can't they remember the blood, the toil? Can't they see the ghosts of the past, closing in with every night? Can't they feel the tentacles of the Earl around them, his very guile? Can't they see the faces, the tears, his fright?

The dreams are more vivid now. They paint his nights red, drawing blood and gnawing away at his memories and his sanity.

Soon, one day, the Earl will rise again, and they will be doomed to a land of depravity and sin.

* * *

 

Lenalee looks at the sleeping figure beside her. "You sure about this, Lavi?"

Lavi shrugs. "This is the only way, Lena."

The drugged figure in the back seat bounces slightly as Kanda rushes the car over a tall road bump and finally coasts to a rough stop. "Here," Kanda says. "Now get out."

"Get a wheelchair, Lena," Lavi says. "I can't carry him, and Yu won't."

Lenalee grabs the nearest wheelchair; together, the three friends wheel an unconscious boy into the Noah Hospital situated at the outskirts of town. They are met by a tall doctor with a flirtatious smile and a head of curly, dark hair.

"How can I help you?" the doctor asks.

Lavi glances at the man's badge. "Ah—Dr Mikk? We're here with our friend… he's a little not right in the head. So we thought we'd bring him to be evaluated."

"You're looking for the psychiatric department," Dr Mikk says. "Take that elevator, and go up to the thirteenth floor. Dr Kamelot will examine him shortly."

The three wheel the unconscious boy away, and Dr Mikk allows himself one feral grin before he turns back to his work.

* * *

 

(The 19th century)

A sword against his throat, a pain in his side. Allen takes a deep breath and looks the Earl in his eyes. "You're lying."

"I am not," the Earl says simply.

The Earl withdraws his sword. Allen allows himself to relax for a moment, allows himself to breath freely, allows himself to lower his own sword to the ground.

Then the Earl raises his sword to the sky, and Allen braces himself for the next blow. It doesn't come. What does come is a flash of lightning, splitting asunder the fabric of the grey sky.

In that moment, when everything sizzles white-hot, Allen sees Lenalee sprawled on the ground, struggling against Lulu Bell's talons; he sees Lavi and Fiidora face to face, with Lavi writhing against Fiidora's hold. Kanda bleeds into the ground while Tyki laughs a short distance away.

Then the Earl chuckles. The lightning kisses the tip of his blade, and Allen waits for the Earl to char and fall.

But that is not what happens.

What happens is that the light becomes so blinding that Allen cannot see, and so he closes his eyes. Nothing comes after. There is no smell of something burning, none of the cascade of terrible yells that usually accompanies bloodthirsty fighting. There is no more pain, no more wind, just an abyss of darkness. That is Allen's last thought.

Then the world winks out.

* * *

 

_(The Saga of the Sleeping Warriors)_

_Once upon a time, in a land and time unknown, a strong and hardy folk took their last stand against a race of monsters. After centuries of warfare unending and deaths unnumbered, the defenders were tired but unyielding._

_Then came the day when the invaders brought their host to stand before the crumbing walls; archers pointed their bows upwards, and catapults loaded like serpents waiting to strike._

_The leaders of the defenders came to the fore to the succour of the soldiers, their dark cloaks flapping in the angry wind. They stood on the heights of the broken walls, looking down at the strange men who had come to harry them and destroy them._

_They called upon their ancient magic, their lore of wood and of stone, their love for the trees and the animals and the empty plains where a man could ride a full day and yet not see another village. They prayed and thought of their fears of being hemmed in and oppressed by ones who did not understand them, and they called upon their ancient gods to rise from deep sleep and endow them with magic unencumbered._

_The tide of the battle turned. The defenders were winning. And in that hour, the victory would have been theirs._

_However, the chief of the invaders stepped forth just when his host was being decimated at the greater rate. Casting back his hood, his curls flying free, he cursed the land and the ancient gods and brought forth a greater power of destruction._

_He killed not, for he would not dirty his hands, but he cast the defenders into a deep sleep from which they were not to awaken. The lands he took, and the ordinary folk, and soon the memory of the defenders passed away like a whisper in a gale. No minstrel's tale spoke of them, no bards sang of them._

_The brambles grew thick over the abandoned fort, and the warriors slept on through the spiralling years. The clouds were always grey over that land, and birds sang no more in the nearby forests. The fort became a place of sepulchral splendour, a decaying town where the river of time no longer flowed. It was a thing of beauty, and a thing of tragedy, a cairn for those lost in a miasma of enchanted sleep._

_At last, when three whole centuries had passed, the spell passed, collapsing in on itself, and the warriors awoke. Again they donned their armour and sharpened their weapons, and set out to hunt their enemies, their ancient enmity still unforgotten despite the long intervening years._

_When asked, they would say, a war is never over until the last of the enemy lies buried under the soil._

_And so, they hunted._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First posted on FFN in Jul 2014.
> 
> This is not a reincarnation fic. Basically one moment they're fighting in the 19th century, and the next, they're living in the 21st century with no inkling of their pasts and nothing in their minds but manufactured memories. Except for Allen, who's slightly suspicious about his circumstances.
> 
> The setting was inspired by EulaliaGal's fic "Yearn" over on FFN (which is a beautiful and heartbreaking read).


	2. Chapter 2

Christmas greeting card, dated December 2013

_So… We've had a fun year, haven't we? I'm looking forward to more skiing, beach days, road trips and sleepovers in 2014! You guys really make life worth living._

_So—Merry Christmas to you—and send my regards to Komui too! We'll have to catch up when Cross and I return from Anita's._

_Love,_

_Allen_

We damned him, Lenalee thinks, tracing the rough edge of the old greeting card. The thin, sharp edge of the dusty card slices across her fingers. It hurts, a startling pain that subsides into a dull throb. And yet it cannot call away the darkness that crests against her heart. It cannot recall the past, the old joy, the fleeting happiness of childhood.

What hurts even more is the knowledge that they have betrayed Allen. Allen, who is their friend; Allen, one of the sweetest and kindest souls Lenalee has ever known. They have betrayed Allen, Allen with his sad, lonely eyes, and his big, tired smile, whose sorrows are too many to count, whose fears are a nightmare beyond the comprehension of their modern minds.

Now, Allen has his own room in the asylum, and a poor prognosis of recovery. He's safe in the keeping of Dr Kamelot, kept in isolation for his own safety. He has been there for a good six months.

Even so, Lenalee's heart shrivels up in guilt. Not a day passes that Lenalee does not think about him.

By all accounts they did the right thing in entrusting Allen's condition to the professionals, but there is a feeling lurking deep in her bones, the same strange intuition which keeps the adventurer safe from the beasts lurking deep in unexplored woods. The feeling tells her that something is wrong here. Something has gone terribly, irrevocably wrong. _We have doomed Allen._ And yet she cannot explain why.

Instead, Lenalee trudges on, pushing through the curtains of the fleeting days, half in this world and half in her own mind.

This continues until the dreams come for her as well.

First there is the sea; she can smell the salty sea breeze, can hear the tired thrill of lapping waves. The cold fingers of the wind find purchase on her skin, skim through the curtain of her hair.

Then there is something tight, something binding her—black ropes (so it seems to her in that delirious, demented moment) snake around her ankles, like serpents waiting for the kill, waiting to fell her in one lazy, piercing bite.

And then water—lots and lots of it—everywhere; in her hair, in her hands, in her mouth, in her lungs. She coughs and spits and kicks and yet the black ropes hold true. The black creature—monster, rather—with strange tendrils reaching out from its sides—looks at her through the windows of his fingers and laughs gleefully. The sound cuts through the still air and grates her nerves.

She thinks this must be how a banshee's shriek sounds like.

She twists and turns, prey in the predator's mouth, feels the gravity of water pushing against her frail human body. She wonders if this is how it's like to be buried alive, as if she were a whore accused of heresy and adultery in olden times.

The pain binds her, courses through her, tears her apart.

Then she wakes, the sea water still burning her throat, the glimpses of seaweed and broken masts still fresh in her mind, the smell of the sea still heavy in her hair, a scream half choked in her tight, swollen throat.

* * *

 

Now Lenalee can't eat.

Komui, half-awake, scribbles on his papers, equations and numbers spilling over the edge of the paper and onto the kitchen table. He doesn't notice when Lenalee pours her tea down the sink, doesn't notice when she slides the contents of her bowl into the bin.

It's just a nightmare, she tells herself, in the safety of her room as the sunlight makes everything safe. Just a nightmare. I've been thinking too much about Allen.

And yet, that night, the nightmares come again. Now she is tied up on a bed, long hair trailing down her sides, and a man looms over her.

"I want to go home," she says, tears on her cheeks and blood in her mouth.

"I don't want to slap you again, girl," the man says, gold cross glittering against the velvet black of his robes. "So don't give me any more cheek."

They lock her away in the dark, uncaring of the monsters that prowl through the night, unaware of the skeletons that hide in the closet.

She dreams of a boy in Hevlaska's tendrils, dreams of the same haggard boy turning to her and waving through the slit of the slightly open door, dreams of the boy set alight with the unholy light of a fallen angel.

She dreams of darkness, and death, and mawed Finders. Of piles of clothes and dust, of empty houses and open graves.

She calls for her brother, and he doesn't come. He can't hear her, after all.

* * *

 

One day, there is a flicker in Lenalee's memory. A long-hidden memory, of a tall man with curly hair and a ready crescent smile and long, thin fingers dancing through the air. Of hope lost and the salty tang of blood. Of the bitter price of almost-defeat and the rotting core of their weakening resistance. Of Lavi—a different Lavi, who?—lost to those who loved him, taken in his prime and ensnared with bugs no one could see, until he could barely fight even in the final stages of the ancient war.

Sheril Kamelot. She remembers him now, the ancient memory dredged up from deep sleep.

The next day, Lenalee goes to see Allen in the asylum.

He is hunched over in bed under the grey blanket, his hair a mess, his eyes large and hungry for human interaction. There are bags under his eyes.

"Allen," Lenalee says, reaching for his hands.

He pulls away. "Lenalee," he says. Then he adds, "I'm not crazy. I swear I was telling the truth about—"

"I know."

"Then why did you… why did you all—" Allen's fingers tremble against the grey covers like a quivering bowstring. "How could you?"

"I just—I just remembered," Lenalee says. She takes a seat, unable to meet Allen's eyes. "I'm so sorry, Al. So, so sorry. We should never have doubted you."

A silence. Then— "You remember? Truly?"

"I've been having dreams," Lenalee says. She suppresses a shudder. "I've been so frightened. I hoped they were not real. I thought they were nightmares. And then I knew. They're memories."

Allen nods. "We fought those monsters once. They're called Akuma."

"Akuma. What a dreadful name." Lenalee covers her eyes with cold palms. "I wish—I wish this were not real."

Allen lays a cold palm against Lenalee's hair. "I wish so too."

Lenalee looks up. "There is one more thing," she says. She rolls up the hems of her jeans to display her ankles. There is a cross etched into each ankle, both brown-red scars.

"When did this…"

"Yesterday," Lenalee says. "I—I tried to invoke Dark Boots." The name feels so unfamiliar on her tongue, the heritage of a different, more difficult life.

"And?" Allen leans forward, staring intently at the scars.

"Nothing happened. I … I must say I was a little disappointed."

"So you don't have your weapon either."

"I am so, so frightened," Lenalee says. "I really—I'm so afraid Komui will notice. It's a good thing Reever's been bugging him with a great deal of work lately. What should I say if he asks?"

Allen shrugs. This is but one question he has no answer to.

Lenalee sighs. "What a predicament we are in. Is it possible that we are wrong? Maybe the Earl is long dead, and these are simply nightmares?"

"I don't think so," Allen says. Then he asks, "What will you do?"

"What can I do? If I talk about it—they will think I've gone mad too."

"The danger is coming," Allen says. There is something close to terror in his gentle voice.

"I know. But … how can I get them all to see sense? Where are our weapons? Where are the others?"

"Miranda, Krory," Allen says. "Marie, Timothy. My master."

"Yes," says Lenalee. "Where are they? Where are Miranda and Krory? And Marie? And Timothy? And does Mr Cross remember yet?"

"No," Allen says. He tries to smile but doesn't quite succeed. "It's a pity he doesn't yet. He could change the way things are, if he regains his memories—but."

"I should ask him," Lenalee says feverishly.

"He came to see me recently," says Allen. "He called me a brat and told me to keep my mouth shut in future before saying stupid things, and I quote, _see where that has gotten you, you little piece of shit_ , unquote."

"What should I do?"

"You must find them," Allen says. "Or we shall all be doomed."

"I will try," Lenalee says.

* * *

 

And so it comes that the threads of the abandoned tapestry fall into place.

Lenalee makes sure to visit Allen every Friday. She sits for hours in his room, talking of everything and nothing, watching with pained eyes as Allen hunches over on the stiff mattress, hands folded limply in his lap.

"We've got to do something," she says one day.

Outside, grey stretches of cloud hang heavy in the sky. Angry thunder rings through the sky, the booming reminder of nature's fury.

Allen watches the wind sweep fallen leaves across the road. Today his shoulders are slumped and he wears defeat tight around his brow like an unholy crown. "There's nothing we can do."

"We should tell them, maybe—"

"It won't work, Lenalee. They'll think you're crazy." _As you thought I was._ The words left unsaid are sour on Allen's tongue, and bitter to Lenalee's ears.

Lenalee's shoulders slump in turn. She leans back against the hard wooden back of her chair, feels the carved sides creak into the contours of her bones. She thinks on the nightmares that have crept up on her of late, of twisted metal and black blood, of monstrous magic and weeping widows, of death and decay and devastation unending.

"So we just wait to die?" she chokes out, at last. Again, Eishii comes to mind, and she can almost feel the cold grasp of metal searing across her skin. Shivering, she pushes the thoughts away.

Allen manages a wintry smile. "We have no weapons, Lena."

In the sudden glare of lightning that lights up the room with an unholy brightness, Lenalee looks at Allen and sees a death mask looking back at her. She shivers and wishes deeply for sturdy boots, the power of flight, and the wind in her hair.

"What have we become?" she says, and looks back at Allen.

In the half-light, Allen shakes his head and wraps his blanket tighter around himself. He has no words left to describe their most unfortunate situation.

"This cannot be the end," she says, alight with righteous fury.

"Let the dead bury the dead," Allen says, still and unmoving.

"You have to walk on," Lenalee says. "Remember the promise you made all those years ago."

"I have to walk on…" Allen says, almost wonderingly. "Mana said that, didn't he? But then again he wasn't who I thought he was."

"Does it matter? Think on the Mana you knew and loved."

"Mana and Neah," Allen says. "Two traitors."

"Are you still there, Allen?" Lenalee says. She can't face him, can't force herself to look into those increasingly empty eyes.

"Am I?"

"Please remember why we fight, Allen," Lenalee says. "Remember what you used to say. Your left arm for the Akuma, your right for the humans."

"I will try," he says, and in this lifetime, it is Lenalee who takes him into her arms.

She folds him into her embrace and strokes his hair. "You've suffered so much, Allen. But you must walk on. You have a world to save, Destroyer of Time."

"Maybe I was meant to destroy the world," Allen says.

Lenalee bites back her tears, the pain of the years, and hugs Allen tighter.

He doesn't hug her back.


	3. Chapter 3

Then one day, it is Kanda who wakes sweating and trembling, his soul trampled and his memories awakened.

There had been a field of golden flowers in his dreams. A stooped tree, its bare branches bereft of birds. The sky a bright summer blue deepening into the twilit hour. A pond a few steps away, a multitude of lotus flowers swaying in the gentle breeze.

And in the distance, a woman looking towards the horizon. She turned back to him, and he could hear her gentle laughter, could see the playful twist of her hands. But the sun was in his eyes, and the wind blew her kerchief across her face.

He held his hand up to his face, but she was gone—a cry, a blow to his temples, and he lay among the stems of the flowers—and a face, garishly painted, looked down at him— _Akuma!_ he thought.

A look of mutual recognition. 

"Exorcist!" the Akuma said, and gave a tinkering laugh.

Then pain washed over him, pure fission in his bones, the agony webbing through his body.

The last thing he saw was the setting sun, a dash of red against the empty sky.

* * *

Then come the nightmares.

Gunmetal grey monsters, shrieking in the night; a red dawn, and a man tied upside down to a lamp post, his face grey in tragic death.

A lotus flower, fully blooming.

Kanda remembers.

Kanda remembers the dance of death, the thrill of the chase, the clean slice of metal through metal. Kanda remembers the draughty corridors of an ancient castle, the deep-bellied echo of metal bells ringing out the hour, the dangers and burdens of a different lifetime.

Kanda remembers a singing doll in a dusty and thirsty abandoned town, remembers Tiedoll in a uniform with twinkling gold buttons, remembers the intense fight with Skinn Bolic that left the Noah dead.

He remembers his first death, reawakening as a child, and then his second death, holding tight in his arms the broken body of Alma Karma. He remembers fading in the ruined city of Martel, his back painful against the sun-scorched stones, watching as the memories of his past turned to dust.

He remembers returning to the Order, remembers the deathbed of Zu Mei Chang, remembers his acceptance of Mugen yet again, the magic of Innocence taking root in his blood, staking its claim in his body when it burst out the veins of his forearms.

* * *

The next Friday, Allen awakes to see Kanda walking into his room.

"Why are you here, BaKanda?" Allen says, not even bothering to push away the covers and sit up.

"To see whether you're alive," Kanda says.

"Since when did you care?" Allen fidgets and glares at Kanda. "Well. I'm alive. You can leave now. I don't have all day to sit around and—"

"Shut your trap," Kanda says.

Allen sighs. "Leave me alone with my hallucinations." He spits out the last word with the venom of a rattlesnake.

But Kanda doesn't budge. Instead, he pats his waist, as if remembering the ghost of a sword that used to hang just so against his thigh.

"Well?" Allen says, slightly intrigued.

Kanda cuts quickly to the chase. "I've had the dreams too."

"Oh?" Allen finally sits up straight. "Lenalee too. Did you know?"

Kanda raises an eyebrow. "She didn't tell me that."

"Of course not, you arse."

"Shut up. That's three of us."

"Yes."

"So what now?"

"I don't know," Allen admits. "I don't even know where our weapons are now."

"Your arm still looks red and scaly," Kanda offers. _Is that Crowned Clown?_ he wonders. _It looks the same as it ever did._

Allen rolls his eyes. "Yes, I can see that. And no, before you ask, it doesn't work as it did."

"Pity," Kanda says.

"I think we will all slowly awake. Before the battles start again."

Kanda doesn't see the point in continuing the conversation any longer. "Alright then. I have no interest in being a hero, anyway."

Allen smiles for the first time in days. "We weren't heroes," he says. "We were called _exorcists_ , back then."

* * *

The council of war starts the very next week.

At exactly four in the afternoon, Kanda and Lenalee meet at the main entrance to their campus and then ride Kanda's motorcycle to the asylum.

Allen is already waiting when they arrive; he has gotten himself out of bed today in anticipation of their meeting. When they enter, they find him pacing the room, hands clasped behind his back. He turns, smiles, and offers a greeting, the cheeriest he has been in quite a long while.

"How should we do this?" Lenalee asks when they are all seated.

"Isn't it strange that it should be us three?" Allen says.

"Hmm?" says Lenalee.

"The adults don't remember," Allen says.

Kanda leans back in his chair. "Tch. They're not much use anyway."

Allen decides to point out the obvious. "Neither are we, without our weapons."

"Where do you suppose the Innocence went?" Lenalee says.

"They could be anywhere," Allen says. "Perhaps Hev still exists somewhere, in the ruins of the old Headquarters, waiting for us to return. Or perhaps the Innocence fragments are hidden in diverse places."

"You don't know for sure, Beansprout," Kanda says.

"Of course I don't! I've been locked up in here, no thanks to you!" A deep breath. "We have to find out, somehow."

"We're in London," Lenalee says. "Kanda and I could explore around, see if Hev is still around."

"Such a waste of time," Kanda grumbles.

"It has to be done," Allen says. "I'd help if I weren't locked up here."

Lenalee looks at Allen. "Should we tell Lavi, do you think?"

"Why involve someone whose memories haven't returned?" says Kanda.

"We could try," Allen says. "But I think, this time Kanda is right."

"Of course I'm right."

Lenalee frowns. "But we should at least try."

"I'll try," Kanda says. "But it won't work."

"You'll get to say 'I told you so', in that case," says Lenalee.

"We can't force them to remember." Allen turns his face away from them. "We can only hope they get the dreams soon. We need all the help we can get. Even if we manage to get back our Innocence weapons somehow."

"Tch," says Kanda.

"Be careful around Dr Kamelot," Lenalee says.

"I know," Allen says simply. "I know, Lenalee. Dr Kamelot and Dr Mikk. Sheril Kamelot and Tyki Mikk."

In the silence that follows, they look at each other, and know that there is little reason to doubt that a painful, bloodthirsty deluge will follow in due course. For the Earl is strong and crafty, and the Noahs age not and die seldom, and the Exorcists of old have been recessed into a scattered people who do not recall their ancient lineage.

And so the world will end in ashes and dust and blood.

But there is time yet, and miles to go before they grieve in the terrible certainty of victory lost.


	4. Chapter 4

One week after the first war council, Lavi drags Kanda to the arcade, and Kanda doesn't resist. He puts up a few customary grumbles, but otherwise allows Lavi to pull him along. Lavi looks concerned for a moment, when he finds nothing but a courtesy resistance, but doesn't comment on Kanda's abnormal behaviour.

Then, after Lavi achieves a high score from shooting countless zombies, Kanda jerks his head at the screen. "What if this were real?" 

"Say what?" Lavi says.

"I said, what would you do if this were real?"

"Oh, come on, Yu, don't joke around. Zombies aren't real and you know it. You do know, right? You can't be that ignorant? Oh, maybe you are that ignorant. I really hope not—"

"Why do you always talk so much?" Kanda presses his fingers against his temples.

"I—"

"What if I said there was a way to bring the dead back to life?"

Lavi laughs. "Honestly, Kanda—if I thought you weren't joking—" He catches sight of Kanda's face. "You aren't joking? Come on, Yu, really. You and I both know there aren't any zombies in this world. It's scientifically impossible. It's a null hypothesis. Are we really going into the realm of probability? Because—."

"No." Kanda shrugs and stands.

"What's wrong with you, Yu? Is something wrong?"

"Have you had the dreams?"

"What dreams?" asks Lavi. "You okay, man? You're really off today, you know?"

Kanda groans. ""Fuck, just stop talking. Play your game."

With that, Kanda slams the door behind him, leaving a puzzled Lavi behind. 

* * *

Strangely enough, Link's memories are the next to return.

One fine day, while Link is in the middle of typing out a long report, double-spaced and in font size twelve, in his tidy office in a law enforcement bureau, a terrible headache hits him. When two tablets of pain-relief medicine do nothing for his state, he gets up, sways, and somehow finds his way to the washroom.

The nausea hits badly, a vortex in his abdomen, and rings of thunder against his skull. He throws up, and then cleans up as best he can through the wave of double-vision. He leans his head against the cool walls of the stall, and tries to empty his mind.

But he finds that his mind is chaotic, a deadly sea in the grasp of a dark and terrible storm. No matter which way he steers, he finds himself in the throes of a deadly fear.

When he opens his eyes, he sees both the white tiles of the toilet cubicle and a different world—a world of shadows, a world of pain, a world brimming with anxiety and teetering on the edge of destruction.

Shadows dance across the stage of the _other_ world, the flitting memories of things long ground to dust.

Link watches, his mind hazy. He sees himself, in a thick coat, marching after a young boy with snow-white hair. He sees the same young boy pinned to the ground by rectangular strips of paper, sees an empty room with its lone glass window cracked and broken, blood sloshed over the windowsill.

He sees a scene of despair, marble columns and balustrades yielding to the forces of gravity, thick wafts of grey smoke curling across the floor as a thing with wings and a cherubic face flies above the scene of carnage. He sees blood and death and piles of empty clothing and thinks, _I know this place. I lived here once._

He sees the boy lying prone on the ground, sees himself spring up, knives shooting out from under his sleeves. _I could do that?_

He sees the boy fight, sees the boy triumph, sees the boy fall into another snare. He sees the boy cast into captivity. He sees the pain in the boy's eyes, the loss, the fear.

He sees a kind-faced man step into the boy's prison cell, sees his own eyes speared by the man's strange powers. Sees himself die. As the scene unfolds, Link intuitively clutches his chest, reliving again the phantom stab of a strange weapon the world had not known before.

He sees a large man fighting the boy in a cobble-stoned street, sees the boy double over in pain, sees himself— _I thought I was dead?—_ rush over, binding spells at the ready.

He sees himself kneel before the boy, sees his lips moving. Then he thinks, _I am to become the Fourteenth's ally and yet deep within me I pray for Allen Walker to rally against his sorrowful fate_. These thoughts are foreign to his mind, and yet he recognises the tenor in them, recognises the depth of his plea and wonders at the protective instinct that soars up in his breast at the mention of the name Allen Walker.

_Who is this Allen Walker?_

When the nausea passes and the headache dies out, Link shakes the cobwebs of his fears from his hair and wipes the grotesque shadowy scenes from the contours of his eyelids. He stands before his desk, and pulls up a database. He is determined to discover who Allen Walker is.

When the search results come in, and he finds out that one Allen Walker has been institutionalised in the Katerina Campbell Psychiatric Institute located within the St Noah Hospital in the south of the city.

Jaws clenched, Link checks the address and ward number, and makes a mental note to free up his schedule on the morrow. _I will find him and get to the bottom of this_. 

* * *

Lenalee and Kanda wander among strange artefacts.

They have somehow found their way to catacombs long described as nearly impossible to explore. Generations of explorers, professional and amateur alike, have catalogued the catacombs as being stubborn and closed off. And yet Lenalee and Kanda have managed to pass through three levels of buried rock and stone.

There is a strange feeling to the rocks and stones here, an intensity of familiarity that emanates off them. Lenalee feels the draw of the place, as if the very foundations are calling out to her.

"This place is very strange," she remarks.

"Yes," Kanda says. "And dangerous."

"I feel like I know this place."

Kanda nods.

"Do you think it might be?"

When Kanda doesn't answer, Lenalee turns back. She finds Kanda staring through what appears to be a hole in the ground.

"Kanda?"

But Kanda doesn't respond.

Lenalee tries again. "Kanda? Are you alright?"

Kanda startles. Slowly, he looks at Lenalee, as if in a daze. He beckons her over.

Together they gaze into the darkness, and feel the pull of the centuries. This is a feeling they both know, a feeling of desperation. Hurt and pain galore ratchet through their minds, and freeze their very blood. There is a memory here of something despicable, something that tormented countless children. There has been death here, and a slaying of fallen angels.

Kanda and Lenalee look at each other, at a loss for words. They remember, these two comrades, they remember the trials of the past, blood spilled and blood lost, the indescribable pain of a forced synchronization with the Innocence.

Kanda almost sighs. "We've found the place."

When she is able to speak past the lump in her throat, Lenalee takes Kanda's hand. "Yes, I think we've found the place."


	5. Chapter 5

Lenalee and Kanda decide against jumping straight into the hole in the ground. Instead, they wander on, passing tapestries of moss and lichen and blank stretches of weathered grey stone.

After an hour, Lenalee sighs and leans against the rock. "I'm so tired. Let's take a break."

Kanda runs a hand across the grey stone, almost wonderingly. The usual anger has left his face, and now he looks young and tired, and almost _innocent_. "Perhaps there's no other way down."

"Maybe we should head back, then," Lenalee says. "We can come back another day with some rope or something, and see if we can find out how deep that hole is."

Kanda looks at Lenalee and then stares into the darkness beyond. "Wait here. I'll explore a little further. Just in case."

And so Kanda walks on, his footsteps fading into the eerie silence, his shadow blending into the darkness.

Lenalee sits on the ground and waits. Five minutes—ten minutes—and then fifteen minutes. She starts to get antsy as the minute hand of her watch ticks on. Surely Kanda couldn't have put himself into danger or fallen into some abyss?

In the watchful darkness, with rock and stone overhead and the history of torture buried deep in the heart of the earth, Lenalee waits. She shines her torch here and there, studying the stone, wondering if in ages past she once walked here and watched the sky, watched the sun set and rise, or rose in trembling flight when the Akuma came to attack.

She runs a hand against the stone too. _Is this where it all began?_ Here, where the shadows lie long and the silence grows thick, here where time stands still and the past hangs heavy like a musty curtain in an abandoned mansion, here where the foundations of their twisted lives lie buried under an avalanche of years.

"Lenalee." Kanda is back, tall and still in a tiny circle of light. "I've found a way."

Further down in the shifting darkness there is a path leading to what looks to be an endless curve of stairs. Together, they stumble down these roughly-hewn steps, fighting always to gain purchase against the slippery rock where any slip might mean instant death.

"There used to be a lift here," Lenalee says, after a while.

"It's long gone," Kanda says brusquely. He too remembers a lift, an inverted pyramid which often spiralled through the air, going up and down the central shaft, carrying the crazy supervisor more often than not.

"I—"

"Wait." Kanda holds up a hand, pointing downwards.

In the distance, Lenalee sees a glimmer of soft light.

"Hurry," Kanda says. He continues down the stairs, unheeding of uneven rock and water that drips ominously down from the high ceiling.

When they finally leave the stairs and step off into another dark cavern, they find their torches quite unnecessary. Here, deep in the earth, following a path long hidden, they have come full circle. Here, they are again in the midst of history, here where a shaft of blinding light extends from the floor to the ceiling in the middle of the cavern.

Here, Lenalee is sure, Hevlaska waits, within the column of light.

Kanda strides forward till he stands before the column. "We should break it."

"Do you suppose it would be safe to?"

"You have any other suggestion?"

"No…"

"Then I'll break it," Kanda says. He grabs a large rock sitting nearby.

Lenalee looks away. If Kanda is wrong… She can't witness this destruction, can't handle the breaking of another part of her world.

The seconds crawl like hours as Kanda lifts the rock and smashes it into the column of light.

A sound like thunder.

A flash of blinding light.

Then _nothing_.

* * *

Howard Link is a very responsible sort of person; the kind of employee a supervisor might entrust weighty tasks to. The kind of employee who might work overtime more often than necessary in order to keep up with his own sense of duty and dedication.

Today, however, Link tidies his desk at five-thirty sharp, when the golden light of the sun still floods the sky. He walks out the door at the same time as the oldest secretary, the one who makes it a point to bitch daily about having to cook dinner for her ungrateful children and husband.

The far horizon has turned a lovely shade of purple and pink by the time he reaches the Katerina Campbell Psychiatric Institute. The sun hangs low and sleepy against the horizon, a mere dash of faded orange blinking out into a haze of colour.

Link enters the sterile lobby, and ultimately finds his way to Allen Walker's room, in spite of the various unhelpful directions given by dour nurses and rude doctors.

Link knocks. When the door opens, Link stares at Allen Walker—for surely, this must be him, this young man with long white hair and bits of fringe sticking into his eyes, this young man with the red, scarred arm and a haunting look in his sea-grey eyes.

_Allen Walker. The Destroyer of Time._

The memories dredge up again; crystalline threads and angelic demons pelting poisonous bullets and his childhood friend falling to the ground, hands against her face while her body mutates against her will. Link covers his mouth as the bile rises up his throat.

"Are you alright, Link?" Allen says.

Link tries to breath. When he succeeds, he closes the door and stares down at Allen Walker. "You know my name."

"Yes, of course I do. What brings you here? You are truly one of the last people I expected to see."

"Where's the Earl?" Link asks. "Where is the Order?"

"I thought you might ask that," Allen says. He almost smiles.

"Well? Answer me, Walker!" Involuntarily, Link raises a hand to his eyes. _Walker? Why did I call him Walker?_

Allen doesn't react to the name; it's as if he expected Link to call him that. "Everything's gone, as far as I can tell."

"And the people?"

"No one remembers anything," Allen says. He looks at Link, pale and feverish, and Link thinks he can see the shadow of the Fourteenth stirring within those tired eyes.

"No one?"

"Well, technically, Lenalee and Kanda do remember. But none of us have our weapons."

Link shoots a hard look at Allen's red and scarred arm. "But your hand—"

Allen shrugs. "Is just a deformed hand now."

Silence falls between them, stale and heavy like smoke in a poorly ventilated kitchen. There is so much Link wants to say, so many questions burning to leap from his tongue, so many mysteries to unravel. And yet something holds him back.

The silence grows, like thick fog crawling across the ground on a dark and terrible night, and Link feels it would be horribly wrong to even utter a word lest the attention of hiding Akuma be drawn to them—but, Link wonders, where do these thoughts come from? Do they hail from deep within his mind, in the hidden recesses where the past still lingers?

The light outside fades away, and the curtains of night thread through the firmament. The room is shrouded with shadows now, the ghosts of the past and future converging on them in this tiny space.

Link finally speaks. "We have to do something."

"We are doing something."

"What?"

"Lenalee and Kanda are searching for the Innocence."

"Where? And how?"

"They—"

The door crashes open. Allen stiffens, fingers clenched, and Link stands with his back to a wall. Now would be a good time to have some knives on his person… There are two figures at the door, mere shadows against the harsh light of the corridor lamp. Two ponytails in silhouette.

"Allen," the shorter one says, and walks into the room.

The taller one follows, closing the door and switching on the lights.

Allen startles like a beetle emerging from the tomb of deep sleep at the start of spring. "You—you got them? You found them?"

Link's gaze follows Allen's. The man with the long hair and a glare that could kill—his name is Kanda, Link remembers—has a large bag strapped to his back.

Lenalee says, "We found it."

"What's he doing here." Kanda jerks a thumb at Link.

"Never mind him," Allen says. "Show me."

Kanda unzips the large bag and pulls out a long sword. "Here."

"Mugen. Does it work?"

Kanda nods.

Lenalee smiles. "Mine work too." She turns her slim ankles, showing off the sides of her shiny black boots.

"The same ones?" Allen asks.

"The very same ones," Lenalee says. "I never thought I'd be so happy to see them again."

Allen's face grows sombre. "Was Hevlaska there?"

"She's still there, where we found her," Lenalee says. "We couldn't move her. There was no way… I'm sorry, Al."

Allen paces around the room. He touches the headboard of his bed, the window grilles, the tidy, dusty desk. "I'll need to see her to get Crowned Clown—but I can't leave. That's the problem."

"I'll get you out," Link says.

Silence again. This time, three pairs of eyes are on Link; he sees curiosity, doubt and a slow burning anger looking back at him.

"Leave it to me," Link says. Anything to break the awful silence.

"So, Link," Kanda says. He spits Link's name out, like something that belongs in the trash.

Link raises an eyebrow in a perfect imitation of long-dead Leverrier, who wasn't even granted the chance to be chased into the future.

"Why would you choose to help the Beansprout?" Kanda lopes towards Link with the kind of careless grace predators can only ever dream of.

"It is my duty," Link says stiffly.

Kanda, standing right in front of Link, unleashes the full power of his glare. "Don't you dare betray us."

"I wouldn't dream of it."

"Good that we've got that settled," Kanda says menacingly.

"Really, Kanda," Lenalee says.

Kanda leaned against the wall, tucking Mugen under his arms. "Someone had to do it. You wouldn't, and the Beansprout's in no fit state to do it. Be grateful."

Lenalee sighs. "Kanda… you really haven't changed one bit."

"That might be for the best, actually," Link says. He joins Allen at the window. Outside, the sky is navy-dark, a cocoon for festering dreams and nightmares. "We don't know what we're up against."

Kanda decides that it's a good time to interrupt Link's reverie. "How are you going to get him out?"

Link crosses his arms. "Actually… I can do it now. It's not that hard. I have my badge with me. But we'll all go on the run once it happens. The Noahs will be on us as soon as they find out."

"We need to pack," Lenalee says breathlessly. "All the essentials—"

Link nods, glad of the girl's sensibility. "Everything." Then he says, "Can we leave tonight?"

"Yes," Kanda says. He doesn't have all that many possessions anyway, he's never been a hoarder of any stripe, thank goodness.

"Yes," Lenalee says, somewhat uncertainly.

"Just say goodnight to your brother," Kanda advises. "Don't tell him where we're headed."

"That would be good," Link says. "The fewer people who know the truth, the better. We don't need extra liabilities. We'll meet at D– station in three hours, alright? I drove, so we can take my car to the ruins."

* * *

Allen stretches, pulling his hands upwards till they reach above his head. It's been nine months since he woke up in the grey room, all alone, with grilles on his window and a locked door. And now—now, he is free, finally, and he can't quite believe it. He walks down the road with Link, away from the rundown eatery where they've just had dinner, and finds joy when his feet hit the asphalt.

_It's always the littlest things you take for granted, after all,_ he thinks.

The sweater Link bought at the little store down the road hangs off Allen's skeletal frame. But Allen thinks, it feels good to have a change of clothes—something above and beyond the shapeless hospital gowns.

The road is empty, at this hour, and the leaves rustle in the gentle, chilly breeze. There is food in his stomach (and it was delicious, not like the tasteless porridge they fed him back at the asylum). Overhead, stars glimmer.

"Get in the car, Walker," Link says.

Time holds no meaning for Allen until they reach D– station and rendezvous with Kanda and Lenalee.

The drive to the station is a stretch of night, broken only by the faltering light streaming from old street lamps. Allen looks out the window as Link drives; sleep doesn't beckon. Instead, he thinks of nothing and everything.

– _he is free, and he is chained; he is at peace, and he is at war. He is loved, and he is alone with the dead_ –

They pull onto an expressway; other cars line up alongside them, drive by them. Allen sees a kaleidoscope of colours, red and orange and yellow, fluorescent in the darkness.

The other motorists are all hurrying towards some distant places, all convinced that they need to reach a certain location by a certain time. Someone taps his horn, someone does not. Someone speeds, someone gives way. All normal people, going about their normal days, doing normal things.

– _he has an arm that transforms into a sword, and he has no arm at all; he opens a gate to an arid, god-forsaken town, where walls crumble and only ghosts walk, and the gate disappears, breaks, shatters into a million slivers of empty light_ –

They pull into a carpark. Link kills the engine and winds down his window. He leans against the window frame, watching the night, while Allen looks inward again and again and again.

Finally, at the allotted time, a shadow detaches itself from all the shadows pooling around the place. The silhouette moves quickly, gliding down the street, and lands a knock on Allen's window. The dim yellow light of the nearby streetlamp dances like gold mist over Kanda's pale face. Link unlocks the back door; Kanda throws in two large backpacks before he slides in.

"What's that?" Link asks, eyeing the bags with suspicion.

"Where's Lenalee?" Allen asks.

"Supplies," Kanda says. And then he adds, "Lenalee didn't come with me."

"That looks like her." Link points out the window; there is movement near them, and soon, Lenalee materialises with a big duffel bag.

The bag makes a clunking sound with Lenalee tosses it onto the car floor.

"Did you bring kitchen utensils?" Kanda says disbelievingly.

Lenalee rolls her eyes. "Yes, I did, as a matter of fact. My camping equipment, to be precise. We'll need to eat, won't we? And we'll run out of money soon, so we can't keep buying takeaway. And we certainly can't get them to deliver the food."

"But we can—"

"We can what, Kanda? We might have our Innocence back, but that doesn't mean we now have other powers to rely on."

"She's right," Link says as he backs his car out of the lot. "Now let's go."

"Yes, let's," says Allen. He looks the happiest he's been for a very long time.

* * *

Bookman bolts upright, clutching at his forehead. His nails are sharp, for he has again forgotten to clip them, and now a tiny trickle of blood bubbles up against the folds of his wrinkled skin.

The dream replays in Bookman's head—a circle of light, pulsing in the night sky, and then tendrils of darkness darting down radial lines towards the centre of the circle; the woman with kohl-lined eyes thrusts her right wrist forward, the hands of the clock face she wears spinning at an unbelievable speed; a large man cries out, saying, _the noises are disappearing, I can't hear their voices_ ; and a disastrous shimmer, like a bolt of lightning on a clear night.

Then a rain of silver light, the fading fragments of lives ended too fast, too soon, crashing to the ground like the treacherous dance of waves against a silent, empty shore.

Lavi, Bookman thinks, Lavi has gone, disappeared, carried away by the wind and that strange light. There is no longer an apprentice, no more continuity, but at his age, he might not have the time to hunt down and train another –

Then the scene shifts, and Bookman sees a dark cave, running water trickling somewhere close by. The air here is foul, reeking of death and decay. Two men in white grin at them, and one laughs and sticks out his long, lizard-like tongue. Eyeballs on his tongue, words falling like sand and stone from that alien mouth, shadows lurking in the corners, and a hiss in Bookman's ears.

"Oh, God," Bookman says, opening his eyes.

He sees nothing but a messy room, sweaters on the back of the sofa; a half-eaten sandwich on the wooden coffee-table, a slice of tomato poking out from the mouldy bread; the television switched on, but muted, such that the news presenter seems to be miming words.

Bookman rubs the sleep from his eyes, downs a glass of water to wash the bitter taste of fear from his tongue. He is too old for this. He has seen far too many summers, endured too many winters.

_Could that be real?_

And, _what if it is real?_

To distract himself, Bookman sets about dusting the books in the glass cabinets lining the next room. He relies on logic to calm himself down.

First, those were dreams. They were nightmares, a terrifying brew born of an excess of exhaustion and insomnia. Second, monsters do not exist in the scientific, progressive world of the twenty-first century. Third, he is a historian, a keeper of ancient lore, and surely he would have come across such a war in his researches?

Then Bookman gasps.

There was once a series of scrolls, detailing a secret war between good and evil. Bookman had read them once, and deemed them fictional, and now the scrolls are hidden somewhere in his dusty basement. Is there time to dig them out?

Then he knows: the dream is real, and he lived it once. He fought the Akuma once, with sharp needles thrumming with a hidden god's power, and he once watched the world go down in ash and fire and sorrow. Bookman sets down his glass as the kitchen wobbles in and out of his vision, as the fear constricts his throat, as his joints ache to think of leaping and running after monsters.

But Lavi—where is Lavi? For if the dream is real, so is the danger, and Bookman knows at once, with the wisdom of years, that their best hope is to find Allen and wait by his side until the Millennium Earl makes his next move.

Lavi, Lavi first. Lavi has to be found, and then they will leave.


	6. Chapter 6

Link drives them north for three hours. Where they're going, the lanes are dark and quiet; they pass fields drenched in shadows and sleeping woods, and meet few other cars along the way. Finally, Link parks in a deserted carpark.

Link retrieves a bicycle from the car boot. "We should bring this with us."

Lenalee looks doubtfully at the bicycle, and then at Link's large backpack. "Can you manage?"

"Of course," Link says indignantly. "I carry my bicycle with me all the time."

Allen glances back at the silent, dark car. "What about your car?"

"We'll have to leave it here," Link says. _We have no choice. For better or for worse, we have to abandon the car_. "I'll bring the keys in case we ever need a quick getaway. But I think we should stick to the bicycle most days if we go out to run errands and get food. It's less noticeable."

Kanda straps a camping headlamp around his forehead. When he switches it on, the space around him lights up with a harsh light, and the darkness recedes. "Come on," he says, and goes first.

Lenalee and Allen follow Kanda. Link takes up the rear, and so they walk on into the living, breathing darkness where Hevlaska, tethered to the past and rooted in rock, waits.

* * *

 

Lavi saunters through the front door as the grandfather clock in the hall strikes eleven. The clock is a beautiful thing, carved from the wood of a tree long dead, the burnished pendulum keeping the hour perfectly.

"I'm home, Gramps," Lavi calls, in case the old man is still awake. He likes to be informed of Lavi's comings and goings, so Lavi obliges him.

"Get in here, idiot!"

 _So the old man's angry_. _Have I done something wrong_? Rack his brain as he might, Lavi can't come up with any possible reason for Bookman's inexplicable anger.

Sighing at his predicament, because he would really like to dive into bed right now and forget the cares of daily life, Lavi pushes open the folding door and strides into Bookman's study. He pauses when he sees the large suitcase lying open beside the mahogany cabinet where Bookman keeps the items he prizes the most.

Atop the mantelpiece, there stands a miniature painting, of a fat man and a young boy. The artist clearly liked the colours red and black and white, for they dominate the painting. Splashes of red, blossoming like swirls of blood; night overhead, and no stars in the sky; the pure, blinding white of the boy's coat and sword…

For the first time ever, Lavi witnesses Bookman lifting the painting off the mantelpiece. When Lavi was young, Bookman told him, _don't you ever dare touch anything up here_. Back then, Lavi was too short to reach the mantelpiece. When he finally grew tall enough, he no longer felt the urge to touch any of the curios lining the shelf.

"What are you doing?" Lavi asks.

"Where have you been, boy?" Bookman says, examining the painting and blowing years of dust off its edges.

"Out."

"Where?"

"I've been out with friends. Is something wrong?" Because Lavi feels in his bones that something's gone terribly wrong.

Bookman swivels his head so fast Lavi nearly trips over the carton of old books and scrolls behind him. "We're leaving."

"Whoa," Lavi says. "Leaving now? Why? And where are we going?"

"Emergency," Bookman says, ignoring the last question. "Pack your things. Bring only what's necessary."

Lavi points at the cartons of books and scrolls and the luggage which contains strange equipment and more books. "You're bringing more than what's necessary, Gramps."

"I'm bringing what I need. Pack a fortnight's worth of clothes. And get some food for us too. I've put a luggage bag in your room, use that. Be ready in an hour."

Lavi lingers at the door. "Shouldn't you at least explain why we're leaving on such quick notice?"

"I'll explain in the car," Bookman says, and resumes his packing. "Go on, now."

* * *

 

Devit hunches over his laptop, playing a game. It's nearly midnight, and he's getting sleepy. He'll kill just a few more zombies, and then he'll head to bed, and—

 _Ring ring_. _Ring ring_.

Devit contemplates not answering the telephone. Would it matter, really, in the grand scheme of things? Because, he really wants to go to bed.

 _Ring ring_. _Ring ring_.

The telephone continues to ring with a stubborn intensity. Quite aware that no good ever comes from taking a call at midnight, especially ones that refuses to stop ringing, Devit reaches for the receiver. A strange sense of dread settles over him.

"Hello? Noah Manor," he says.

Heavy breathing. Devit contemplates slamming the receiver down.

Then, someone finally speaks, voice hoarse and fearful. "We have a big problem here, sir."

Devit sits upright. _Yep, I should never have answered the phone_. "What's wrong?"

More heavy breathing. "Trouble! At the Institute!"

"Calm down, I don't know what you're talking about. And who the hell are you anyway?"

"I'm the head night nurse at the Katerina Campbell Psychiatric Institute!"

"And?"

"He's gone!" she wails.

The air suddenly feels solid; Devit feels woozy. "Say what?"

This time, a sob. "He's gone! We just found out when we checked on his room."

"How do you people do your fucking job!"

"I'm so, so sorry, really we—"

"You're in deep shit." And, as an afterthought, Devit adds, "Get your people to search the hospital and the grounds."

"We're already on it, sir, but there's no sign of it so far—"

"I'll let the boss know." Devit does slam the phone down in the end. He finds that he's shaking, and his fingers are trembling. He has to tell someone. Anyone. He doesn't want to wake the Earl alone, or deliver the devastating news alone. Not alone, no, definitely not alone.

The first room Devit reaches is Tyki's. To wake him or not to wake him? Devit rather dreads the thought of walking in on Tyki and one of his many female _friends_. But the Earl… With a sigh, Devit knocks.

Tyki answers, fully dressed. "Why are you waking me at this hour?" he grumbles.

"You weren't even asleep."

"I might have been," says Tyki. "Is this a prank or what? Is Jasdero going to spray me with water or drop something on my head?"

"No," Devit says shortly. He can't bring himself to say the words.

Tyki frowns. Devit is pale, and shaking, and very much out of sorts. "Is something wrong?"

"The hospital called," Devit says. The fear rises in his heart, and little needle-points of anxiety prickle all over his skin.

"And?"

"He's gone. Escaped."

They stare at each other, in the silent, dim corridor. Tyki begins to sweat. He remembers Joyd's pain, his pain, the Noah's pain, the pain that arose when a white-hot sword flew through him, binding him, pure holiness attempting to slay the monster within. His heart beats faster, and all sounds grow distant.

"Tyki? Tyki?" Devit waves his fingers before Tyki's face.

"Stop that, idiot," Tyki says, brushing his brother away irritably.

"We have to tell the Earl, remember?"

They set off down the corridor. As they pass Road's door, Tyki slows down. "I think we should get Road too."

"Yeah, yeah, she's good at calming the Earl."

Road responds to the knock on her door with alacrity. "What are you guys doing here?" she asks, when she swings the door open.

Devit shuffles his feet. Tyki sighs, and says, "The boy escaped. We have to tell the Earl."

Road tilts her head to the side like a curious bird. "Escaped? Allen?"

"Who else?" Tyki says.

Road says cheerfully, "This will be fun! I can't wait to chase him down."

"It will not be fun," Devit says petulantly, sliding his hands into his pockets, where he is no doubt rubbing his nails into pieces, and possibly thinking of the months he wasted chasing down Cross Marian years ago. "The Earl is going to shout and cry."

"I'll calm him down," Road says softly, watching the unease bloom over her siblings' faces. "That's why you fetched me, isn't it? To comfort him."

Tyki ruffles Road's's hair. "You're a bright one, aren't you."

"Then let's go." Road skips down the hallway, humming to herself, her dress swishing out around her.

* * *

 

Somewhere in the labyrinth of darkness, they come across a splinter of light. It beckons, the light at the end of the tunnel, the answer to their myriad questions.

Allen turns back to the others. "She's there, isn't she?"

"Yes," Lenalee says. "We're very near now."

They press forward, boots squelching against the trickling water, unheeding of the darkness around them.

There is a deep yearning in Allen's heart, a yearning that knows nothing of time and space. He feels the wind in his hair, the thrill of the fight, and sees the pain of chained souls, and longs to set them free. There is a yearning in his arm, the ghost of the past sinking its claws into him, the knowledge of an abyss in his life.

Finally, they step into the cavern. Bright light envelopes them all, and for a moment it seems to Allen that he walks in a strange country, a country of light and weightlessness. Then he sees Hevlaska, shining with a holy light, and she reaches out to him, and he lets her.

"You are back, Allen Walker, Destroyer of Time," Hevlaska says. Her voice booms across the chamber, resonant and clear, and yet musical, like old church bells ringing the hour.

"I'm back to continue the fight, Hevlaska."

"Are you ready?"

"When I have ever not been ready?"

Hevlaska laughs. "That is true. This is a great commitment you take up again, Allen Walker. The Order failed you once, and it is likely to do so again. Will you bear the burden again, in spite of how we have treated you?"

"I know. And my answer is yes."

"Will you still join with your Innocence, then?"

"I am here," Allen says simply.

Hevlaska nods and pulls out a green cube. It floats before Allen's face, shimmering and vibrating, and once again a deep yearning seizes Allen.

"Let me measure your accommodation level first," Hevlaska says gently. "Just in case."

"There is no need," Allen says, reaching for the humming Innocence.

The cube is warm against his palms. "I'm back. I'm sorry I took so long," Allen says.

The Innocence quivers, like a little bird, and Allen brings his hands to his face. "We'll finish the Earl for good this time, and save the world. You and I, together. Please give me the chance to finish what we started centuries ago. To save the world, and the Akuma souls, even if I must die. Please, Innocence."

Black liquid in his arms, spreading across his fingers, the nod of a distant god. In the bright fog, Allen hears the roar of the wind, and the blare of a trumpet, as if declaring the new start of their cleansing war.

Allen tilts his palms and allows the liquid Innocence to flow down his throat.

"So it is, so it shall be," Hevlaska says. In her voice, deep and mellow with the wisdom of years, Allen hears the promise of the heavens: _behold, my child, you have returned; fear not, for I have redeemed you;_ _I have summoned you by name; you are mine. When you pass through the waters, I will be with you._

 _Thank you_ , he thinks, as pain flares throughout his body.

He is on fire, and his feet are pierced with ice; his throat burns and his lungs constrict and his heart gives a treacherous leap. There is lead weighing down his fingers and gravity grasps at his legs; his left hand shrivels up into a desiccated claw. Invisible knives slash across the scarred flesh, the pain of a thousand lives of misery, the pain of the lamb brought to the block for slaughter, a holy sacrifice bleeding into the sacred ground.

Blood spurts—he falls—a green star awakens in the centre of the cavern.

The feathery Innocence stands before him, its roots in the blood on the ground. Allen smiles and touches it, as he has seen Lenalee do once before, a very, very long time ago.

"It's been a long time, Crowned Clown," Allen says, and the Innocence dips its head—if a head it could be called—the green star shatters as Allen and Crowned Clown become one again.

"Welcome back," Hevlaska says.

The fog fades, and in the background stand Kanda, Lenalee and Link, all looking at Allen. Lenalee's teary face betrays her trepidation, and in Link's eyes there is something close to respect. Kanda's face is blank, but he nods once to Allen.

"Welcome back, everyone," Allen says, and he smiles through a mist of tears. "We are finally home."

* * *

 

Bookman steers the car down the empty lane.

In the back, leg pressed against a box of dusty books, Lavi sighs and says, "Gramps, aren't you gonna explain what's happening?"

"Shut up, boy, can't you see I'm driving?"

Lavi rolls his eyes. "You can talk and drive at the same time, Gramps. You've done it before."

"Today's not like any other day, you foolish boy."

"What's so different?" Lavi says. He tries to move his foot, which is starting to feel numb, but succeeds only in hitting his knee against a different box. A third box is pressing into his ribs, and it hurts, and Lavi wishes he knew where they are going. "You said you'd tell me in the car."

"I will, but not now."

"Why not?"

"Let me drive in peace, boy."

"This is tiring. When are we going to stop for the night?"

"We aren't going to stop for now," Bookman says.

"We're not? Oh, Gramps, don't you need to sleep?"

"We have urgent matters to see to."

"What matters?"

"Stop asking, I—" Bookman stops in the middle of his sentence; in the distance, light explodes over the horizon, the silent scream of destiny fulfilled.

"Woah," Lavi says, leaning forward. "Woah."

Bookman continues to stare as the light fades away like the remnants of a dream, dancing in swirls that trail away into the curtain of night.

The car swerves a little to the left, cutting into the next lane. They are dangerously close to driving off the road. Bookman takes control of the wheel again and deftly guides their vehicle back in line.

"What was that?" Lavi whispers. The light still burns bright when he closes his eyes. "An explosion?"

Bookman sighs. "That was a sign."

"Sorry?"

Bookman doesn't answer. Minutes later, he pulls up in front of a shabby motel and parks neatly between two old grey cars. "Let's stop for the night."

"I thought you said it was urgent?"

"Not anymore," Bookman says. "Now it can wait. Get your stuff, boy."

Lavi ambles after Bookman, grasping his bag tight to his chest. The dark motel looms overhead, a few spots of light shining out through windows which were grubby with neglect and the dust of years. Weeds have sprouted up around the compound, and thick moss creeps up the walls; when Lavi nudges at the door, peeling brown paint comes off in his fingers.

"Urgh," Lavi says.

Bookman looks over with a frown. "It's only for a night."

"I know, I know…"

"Where we're going… boy, you should know. Conditions might be worse."

"Worse how?"

"I don't know," Bookman admits. "But worse."

They check in at a dusty counter with one cracked bulb shining overhead and are handed a set of old, weird-smelling keys.

When they finally let themselves into a dank chamber, reeking of mothballs, Lavi locks the door and looks at Bookman. "Old man, will you tell me what this is all about now?"

Bookman sighs. "Yes. Do sit down. It's a long story…"

Outside, lightning flashes and thunder roars as the night wears on, as Bookman spins his tale.

* * *

 

The Earl sits up, clutching at his chest. His heart is throbbing, throbbing, _throbbing_ , heaving against his ribs, straining against his bones. Something has gone very, very wrong. In the darkness, the lone candle snuffs out, and a face rises unbidden in the current of his thoughts.

Bright eyes, sharp cheekbones, wavy hair that curls across fine ears, dancing across a gentle forehead. A friendly grin, an outstretched arm, and then a fire that sears across his vision, turning the world ash-grey and anguished.

Betrayal. That's the word for the pain that burrows through his veins, building as it tunnels along, exploding into a confounding anger in his head. That's the word for the twelve bodies he once found scattered within a sprawling mansion, their blood staining the ground a hideous empty-red. That's the word for the anger and resentment, the _disgust_ in his beloved brother's crazed eyes, the snake that spits at him from Neah's beloved face.

_Afterwards, the snow fell for days, blanketing the towns and hamlets, as the Fourteenth lay dying. He buried Neah under a mound of earth and sealed his body in the barrow with a handful of binding spells. A sad sort of ending for the brother who shared his blood, but betrayal brooked no other ending at that time._

And now—now, what is this feeling that chokes the Earl, this heady desperation that spins the room, this abyss within him that roars with all the strength of an angry sea?

Surely—it can't be—only once has he ever—

_Crash._

The Earl swears and leaps out of bed at the same time. The covers are flung back, but the end of the quilt curls around his left leg, and he hits his shin against the sharp edge of the bedside table. He falls with a cry.

In the shifting darkness, a little shape flits to him, hoisting him up with soft hands and careful words. Then light fills the room; the electric lamp at the far table blinks into life, spreading a warm orange glow about them all.

First the Earl sees Road, her hands against his arm, and then Tyki, leaning against the writing desk, and finally Devit, shrouded in the doorway, skulking like an angry teenager.

"You're crying, Master Millennium," Road murmurs, as she helps the Earl back into bed.

"Here," Tyki says, brandishing a handkerchief.

"What happened to you?" asks Devit.

The Earl looks up at them, his faithful followers all, and a deep dread sinks down into his stomach. "He's done something, hasn't he? Or has Apocryphos caught up with him now?"

"Not Apocryphos," Tyki says grimly.

Devit steps forward. He looks skinnier than usual in the backlight flooding in from the open door. "The hospital called, Earl. Allen Walker escaped this evening."

The Earl placed a hand above his chest. "This evening!"

"Hush, Master Millennium," Road says soothingly.

"How many hours ago?" the Earl croaks. "There must be a mistake… It can't be!"

"The staff are not sure," Devit says. "They're searching the grounds now."

"That won't help!" the Earl says. He buries his face in his hands, and his shoulders heave with unrestrained grief. "This is the end, the end! A curse on all the world! Damn you, Neah! See where you have brought us, with your strange ideas and your damnable betrayal. Damn you, Neah! Damn you, Neah!"

"So it begins again," Road says, holding the Earl in her arms. She looks up at Tyki and Devit, and smiles. "It has been so long."

The Earl continues to moan, rocking back and forth in Road's embrace. He cries and shouts in turn, reusing both counsel and comfort, muttering Neah's name through snatches of lucidity. Tyki and Devit glance at each other, each shrugging when their eyes meet. They know this routine, for they watched the Earl wallow in misery over a century ago, when Allen Walker first awoke as the Pianist.

At last—it feels like _hours—_ the Earl dries his tears and looks over at the three Noah waiting on him.

"This is war," the Earl declares. "We have to hunt him down."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The "promise" Allen hears from the heavens after synchronising with his Innocence is quoted verbatim from Isaiah 43:1-3.


	7. Chapter 7

As the lightning rushes from heaven to earth in the creeping darkness outside, Bookman and Lavi sit in the light pooling out from the lone lamp. In the harsh electric light, Bookman looks old and tired, a warrior gone to waste in his dotage. His cheeks sag where once they lifted in mysterious smiles, and his eyes are heavy with grief and worry where once they were bright as they chased words across paper and people across seas.

"Tell me, Gramps," Lavi says.

Bookman leans against the headboard. "I am going to tell you the truth, Lavi. And you will find it ridiculous. You will wonder if I have gone insane."

"No, I won't."

"You will. This tale is so ludicrous… I do not know where to start."

"Why don't you tell me where we're going?"

"We are going to look for your friends."

"Eh?" Lavi laughs, a sound of gentle mockery for what he assumes to be a poor attempt at humour.

"Allen Walker, Lenalee Lee, Kanda Yu," says Bookman. "Especially Allen Walker."

"Why are we looking for them? They're way back in town, y'know, so we're going the wrong way if—"

"They are _not_ there," Bookman says impatiently. "They left earlier today on urgent business."

"The same business?"

"The very same."

"How do you know? You barely talk to them when they visit."

"I have my ways, boy."

Lavi scratches his head and looks sideways at Bookman. "I don't understand."

Bookman wets his chapped lips. "There are things called Akuma. They are dangerous, very dangerous. They are essentially souls called back from the afterlife, and chained to an artificial body made of a strange metallic substance. A long time ago, you and I worked for an organisation which acted to destroy these monsters."

Bookman continues, "The ones who created these monsters… they call themselves Noahs. The head of that family is the Earl of Millennium. It was the Earl who wrecked our memories and sent us into the future. The world has begun to change; little by little the evil is awakening. We are now seeking your friend Allen Walker, for he is the prophesised Destroyer of Time."

Lavi leans a cheek against his hand. "Yeah, Gramps, you lost me at Akuma. The hell? Don't play such tricks on me. Just tell me the truth, won't you? Did you lose money gambling or something? Are we running from creditors? Because, y'know, you can tell me the truth. No need to spin such a tall tale…"

Bookman raps Lavi on the head with his bare knuckles. "You idiot!"

Lavi rubs his head. "Seriously."

"I wasn't spinning a yarn, young man!"

Lavi frowns and leans away. "Alright, Gramps, I'm tired. Can we just talk about this tomorrow? Maybe you'll feel like telling me the truth tomorrow after some sleep."

Aggravated, Bookman snarls. "Listen to me, boy, you—"

Lavi slips away to his bed and slides under the damp covers. "Night."

Bookman looks sadly at Lavi, whose face is turned away from his, away from the harsh light. He wonders how to convince the boy about the ancient war, and can find no answer.

* * *

 

It's night, and outside a storm rages, but deep down in the safe, warm embrace of the catacombs, Allen smiles and looks at his arm.

"What now?" Kanda says. "You're being creepy, stupid Beansprout."

"Now we fight," Allen says, still beaming beatifically, like a saint walking to resigned martyrdom. "And I'm not being creepy."

Kanda stands, stretches, and walks towards the shadows lining the cavern. "Says you."

"Boys," Lenalee says as she rummages through her bag. "Don't fight, alright? And Allen, where do we start?"

"Don't you need to recruit the others?" Link says.

"That's a bad idea," Allen says. "They'll just catch me and throw me back into the institution again."

Link crosses his arms. "The three of you can't fight the Earl alone."

Allen looks over at Link. "You make four of us."

"Hevlaska makes us five," Lenalee adds.

Link sighs. His face is grey in the wavering light. "I'm not an exorcist. I don't fight Akuma."

"He is right," Hevlaska says, her voice the gentle rumble of a leisurely giant. "You will need to find the others. The Innocence cubes are calling out within me."

"Is it possible," Lenalee asks, "that they are all starting to remember the past? Lavi, Bookman, Miranda, Krory, Timothy? And the Generals?"

"I do not know," Hevlaska says. "But one in particular is starting to pull on me."

"How do you know?" Lenalee asks.

"Because his Innocence resounds within me, calling out through space and time for its accommodator."

Link walks over to Hevlaska. "Who are you talking about?"

"Bookman," Hevlaska says.

"That means the idiot Lavi will be coming too," Kanda says.

"That's great!" Allen says. "We _need_ Lavi too."

"The young Bookman has not regained his memories," Hevlaska says. "His Innocence is silent and still in deep slumber within me."

Lenalee nods to herself. "So Lavi may not come with Bookman. That would be really strange."

"I think he will come," Link says. "You must remember the old man's strength of will. Lavi will come, if unwillingly."

"Then he should not come at all," Kanda says from somewhere in the shadows.

* * *

 

The next day, Bookman tries again. Lavi isn't sullen, thank goodness, and cheerfully makes his way down to the dining hall.

They breakfast well. The motel might be in poor shape, but they have a good cook. Bookman stirs his coffee, _no sugar or milk, thank you_ , and plunges headfirst into the current.

"Have you ever wondered about your eye?" he says.

Lavi looks up, bacon oil gleaming on his lips. He swallows a forkful of egg, and says, "Yeah. But you told me I injured it and decided to wear a patch to conceal the frightful sight. Isn't that it?"

"You did injure it," Bookman says. The coffee is bitter in his mouth, the taste of ashes falling from an incarnadine sky. "But it was no accident."

"Eh?" Lavi says. "I don't remember a thing about it."

"Of course you don't. You were so young then. It was I who took your eye."

Lavi's fork hovers around his mouth. Three seconds wink past as Lavi processes Bookman's words, and then he straightens his shoulders and sits up, mouth wide open in confusion. "You what?"

"It was part of your induction into the Bookman clan. We took your eye in exchange; it was payment for the abilities you gained."

Lavi shrugs and leans away from Bookman; there is more than a little anger in his stance. "Gramps, I told you last night, don't treat me like a child. I don't know why you're doing this. Just give me a straight answer, won't you?"

Bookman shakes his head sadly. "I'm giving you the truth."

Lavi slams a hand into the table; bits of egg and tomato land on the tablecloth. "Look—"

Bookman reaches out and tugs on Lavi's shoulder. "Do you trust me, Lavi?"

Lavi looks into Bookman's eyes through the lens of anger. The dam has collapsed within him.

Bookman then lays his other hand on Lavi's shoulder. "Lavi, you're my grandson." The lie stings his tongue with all the venom of deceit and mockery, but he presses on. "I only want the best for you."

"Then why do you—"

"I know you think I'm making fun of you. I swear that I'm not. Can you accept that at least?"

Lavi stares up into the older man's face. Beyond the wrinkles and age spots, Bookman's eyes are clear and calm, and nearly as bright as any youth's. Lavi nods.

"Good," Bookman says. "And I will give you the proof you desire. We shall look at the matter scientifically, logically, with our brains and not with our emotions."

Lavi nods again.

"But we have to go off first," Bookman says. "I don't want unfriendly people catching up with us. We will find Allen Walker, and then I will make everything clear to you."

"You'd better, Gramps." Lavi returns to his breakfast.

"I will." Bookman looks at Lavi, now bent over and intent on his food, looks at the red hair and the bandana and the strong shoulders, and thinks back to the past. Once they were historians, lore-masters, and strong fighters waging war against the dark and malignant, and yet—now, how they have fallen!

 _I pray that Lavi's memories return soon_ , Bookman thinks. _And everyone else. If not_ — _if not_ — _I shudder to think about what the Earl might achieve this time._

* * *

 

In Hamburg, a group of children in too-large jackets and too-loose trousers knock over potted plants and pedestrians as they follow a woman stumbling along the pavement.

"Stop following me!" she shouts over her shoulders as wisps of hair fall into her eyes. She runs a hand miserably across her face, but the hairs trail into her eyes again.

"Miranda, Miranda, poor, poor Miranda," the children chant, still on her tail.

"Go away!" Miranda shouts. "Leave me alone!"

She runs across the road just as the light turns red; cars honk and a motorcyclist nearly knocks her down. But in the end she arrives safely at the other side, and leaves the odious children behind at the intersection where they content themselves with blowing raspberries at her back.

Miranda hates this life.

The long stretches of unemployment, the chronic laying off from her jobs, the grey sky, the loneliness. Some nights, she looks out from her old flat, at the crescent moon yawning above and the twinkling stars, and wonders how a person could be so alone in the twenty-first century.

There is something missing in her life. She has always felt the stinging cut of that aperture—always wishing for something more than just a job, always yearning for something more than what she has been given.

And now, there are dreams. On her twenty-eighth birthday she wakes in cold sweat, feeling all _wrong_ —the bed feels too big and too empty for just one person. The night too cold, the darkness too empty.

She can't help but feel that there should have been a strong arm holding her close, there should have been someone lying by her side, sharing her warmth: someone tall, someone bald, someone whose deep voice calms her when the panic strikes. She can't see his face, can't place his name, but his touch and voice linger in her memory.

There are others too— _friends_ —a boy with white hair, a kind smile and a deformed arm; a girl with pigtails and a gentle heart; another boy with an eyepatch and flaming hair—but who are they? Their faces are a blur in her mind, like forgotten characters out of a television show enjoyed in childhood.

Besides, ( _poor sad unlucky_ ) Miranda doesn't have friends.

"I'm going crazy," she says, and laughs aloud in her empty, lonely flat.

* * *

 

"There is—something," Hevlaska says, straining against her bonds. Something binds her to the spot; she can take no more than a couple of steps in each direction. It has been so long now since she last saw the sun—centuries of entombment, of despair, of waiting.

"What?" Kanda says, reaching for Mugen.

"Not that," Hevlaska says. "Someone else."

Allen stirs and sits up. "Who?"

"I cannot tell," Hevlaska says. "It is too early. But it is someone else—not Bookman."

"The old man already remembers," Kanda says. "Of course it isn't him."

Lenalee hits Kanda on the arm. "Can't you be more polite, honestly?"

"No."

"You're a pain in the ass, BaKanda," Allen says. "Really."

"I'll teach you pain in the ass—"

"Stop it," Lenalee says, ever the peace-maker. "Let's have something to eat. Hungry stomachs make people grumpy."

"A good idea," Link says, pulling out the portable stove. "I'll help you."

"You two, get over here too," Lenalee says. "Or you won't have any dinner tonight."

Accordingly, dinner is prepared and served, and the four of them tuck into steaming ramen.

"I love the taste of this," Allen says, slurping the noodles.

"Shut up Beansprout, you're fucking disgusting," Kanda says.

"Why do you always have a stick up your—"

Kanda slams his chopsticks against his bowl. "Shut up!"

Link and Lenalee stop eating.

Lenalee ventures to speak. "Kanda?"

Kanda presses a finger to his lips. "Keep quiet, all of you. Someone's coming."

At once, a dome of silence falls over them. Kanda and Allen walk silently to the entrance, where they stand and listen and wait. Both activate their Innocence.

It seems like an eternity. The voices come closer—there are at least two people nearby—indistinct and muffled, the words criss-crossing, the sentences interrupted and stark, echoes of questionable intent in the gloomy darkness. Whether the newcomers are friend or foe, they do not know yet.

"You go, BaKanda," Allen whispers.

"You little punk—"

"You can see quite well in the dark, can't you?"

"Allen's right," Lenalee says, standing by Allen's side. Her Dark Boots are activated as well; sleek wings protrude from the boots, fluttering in the still air. "We'll be right behind you."

When the voices come close enough, and one of the newcomers swears as he trips over a large stone they placed in the corridor for that exact purpose, Kanda darts into the darkness outside.

"Show yourself!" Kanda says.

"Argh!"

"It's me!"

"Bookman?" Kanda says.

"Bookman?" Allen says, and steps out beside Kanda. He switches on a torch and shines it before him.

"Argh my eye!" Lavi says, covering his eye.

Bookman shields his eyes, not looking particularly happy. "It's us."

"Come in then," Link says, lingering by the entrance.

Bookman enters and nods in greeting to Hevlaska, who smiles and grows more radiant.

"Who's that?" Lavi says, gaping at the glowing Hevlaska and her column of light. He rubs his eyes and stares, and then rubs his eyes again.

Bookman joins them in their circle around the stove and motions for Lavi to do the same. "Come here, boy, and stop staring. It's rude. I'll explain later."

Lenalee's hand hovers on the switch of the portable stove. "Do you want some food? I could boil more water for ramen…"

"We ate before we came," Bookman says.

"So, why are you here?" Link asks, and then continues with the business of eating.

"I should be the one asking you that," Bookman says.

Lenalee pours boiling water and instant coffee into two unused mugs. "We know why Link's here, Bookman."

Kanda leans back, dark eyes intensely scrutinising Bookman and Lavi; his hand hasn't left Mugen's hilt. He waits in the periphery, like a predator ready to leap. "You two should be the ones telling us why you're trespassing."

"This isn't your property, Kanda," Bookman says, accepting the proffered coffee mug. "You haven't changed, have you, boy?"

"Don't call me that, old man," Kanda says, not relaxing. He lays Mugen before him, letting its blade glitter in the dancing light.

"It's a pity, then, that a century and more hasn't taught you better manners," Bookman retorts.

Kanda glares at the older man, but lays Mugen to the side and returns to his dinner. He shoves the ramen into his mouth far quicker than necessary, with the sort of unbridled fury he used to display when bringing down hordes of Akuma.

"So it's true," Allen says. "You do remember."

Hevlaska laughs. "Did you doubt me, Allen Walker?"

"It's good to know for sure," Link says brusquely. "Now I suppose we can get on with it, since Bookman isn't eating."

"Get on with what?" Lavi says, strangely pale and quiet.

"He still doesn't know?" Kanda asks.

"He doesn't," Bookman says gravely. "Unfortunate as it is… I had to bring him along."

Lavi grasps his mug between his hands; he hasn't touched the coffee at all. "What are you hiding from me? Are you trafficking something?"

"Trafficking?" Lenalee says. She laughs, a gentle tinkle in the silent night. "Of course not!"

"He shall see, presently," Link says, and looks at Hevlaska. "For now…"

"If you are ready, Bookman," Hevlaska says, "then I am too. It is waiting for you."

"Who's waiting?" Lavi says, fear palpable in his voice. He sets his mug on the ground and looks up at them.

Bookman gets up. "You'll see, boy, and then you'll believe what I'll tell you later. For now... there's no time like the present."

Bookman presents himself before Hevlaska. "I'm ready," he says. He doesn't tremble, doesn't show any sort of fear.

Hevlaska sighs, a tiny sigh, and reaches out with her tentacles. A veil of green light envelopes Hevlaska and Bookman, and all the world stands still as Heavenly Compass comes face to face with its accommodator.

And then—fog—the hand of the unknown creeping across the ground, hiding from plain sight the miraculous process.

Lavi stares, his good eye open and eyebrow arched high. "Fuck," he says. "This isn't real."

"It is real, idiot," Kanda says. He watches Lavi carefully, in case the younger Bookman should take it into his deluded head to try to escape.

"Fuck," Lavi says again, this time softly. "Is he going to die? What are you guys doing here? Did you start a cult or something? What happened to my friends?"

Kanda decides to offer a piece of advice to the babbling Lavi. "Just shut up. You're noisy."

"But! Fuck—look at that! Someone please explain to me—"

"Bookman said he'd explain later, didn't he?" Link says. "So wait for him to explain."

"Yeah, but he's gonna die—I don't know what you lot are playing at—get him out of there, won't you?"

"No can do," Kanda says.

"Lavi," Allen says, laying a placating palm on Lavi's shoulder.

But Lavi jerks away from Allen's touch, as if afraid. "Don't touch me, Allen. You're up to something, aren't you? You were supposed to be in the institution! And somehow you manipulated everyone— _I'm_ not going to fall like the rest of you!"

"That's harsh, Lavi." Lenalee purses her lips as she stares at the redhead.

"He's not right in the head," Kanda declares.

Lavi rounds on Kanda. "And since when did you side with Allen?"

Kanda shrugs. "I'm not on his side. I'm on the side that wants to win the war and live."

"Oh the war," Lavi says, wringing his fingers. "Shut up about this bloody secret war! I don't believe a word of it!"

"He thinks we're lying to him," Link says. "Well, it's hardly my business, I suppose."

Lenalee raises her shocked eyes to Link; there are tears gathering above the fold of her eyelids. "I hate this."

Link starts to say something, but the green fog dissipates, dissolving into air and water vapour. Bookman and Hevlaska appear again.

"Did you get it?" Allen asks.

Bookman holds up a handful of needles in triumph.

"See, Lavi," Bookman says, as everyone but Lavi crowds around him, "I have not been lying to you."

"This is a _cult_ ," Lavi insists. "All smoke and mirrors."

"You should know better than that," Bookman says sadly.

"I'm going to bed," Lavi says shortly, spinning on his heel.

"Where?" Kanda says.

"We don't have a bedroom here," Lenalee says.

Bookman points at his luggage. "I brought extra sleeping bags."

Lavi pulls one of the said sleeping bags to a far corner of the cavern and lays it there. He slides inside, zipping himself up, and turns his back to them. Bookman just stares.

"He'll come round," Link says at last. "It's just a matter of time, until the memories return."

"I know," Bookman says, but he doesn't quite sound so sure.

* * *

 

"So, the plan," Lulu Bell says, sipping her morning coffee, "tell us about the plan."

No one answers her; breakfast, after all, is a busy time for every member of the Noah family. There is food to eat, coffee to swallow, insults to trade, and homework to be done at the very last minute.

Lulu Bell sighs. "Sheril. Are you ignoring me?"

Sheril looks up from the news dailies spread out in front of him. "Yes, Lulu? Did you say something?"

Lulu Bell looks ready to breathe fire. "The plan?"

"What about it?"

"I asked you to explain it to us."

Rhode draws a stick figure on the wooden face of the table. It's a figure of a boy, with a shock of untidy hair, and a pentacle scar that runs down his face. She draws sharp-tipped candles flying straight at him. "He doesn't have a plan."

As Tyki turns to look at Rhode, a dribble of bacon fat lands on his chin. "What, my almighty brother is behind on something this time? Unbelievable!"

"Unbelievable!" Jasdero choruses, smearing butter across the tablecloth.

An angry red splotch appears on each of Sheril's cheeks. "Shut up, Tyki. And stop that, Jasdero. Don't play with your food."

"I agree with Tyki for once," Lulu Bell says lazily, setting her coffee cup back on the table with a gentle _clink_.

"Unbelievable!" Jasdero says in a sing-song voice.

Lulu Bell snatches the butter knife and the butter platter. "Seriously, grow up, Jasdero. We are _not_ going to replace the tablecloth _again_. It's been barely a week!"

"I've been busy, _okay_ ," Sheril says, laying the newspapers aside.

Lulu Bell rolls her eyes. "With the boring human wars."

Sheril reaches for the coffeepot. "Yes, exactly."

"Which are _oh so important_ ," Lulu Bell says.

"They are, I'll have you know—"

Lulu Bell holds up a hand. "So what's the plan?"

"I don't have one yet!" Sheril's shoulders sag; the years have not been easy on him, and now he wears his age on his face.

"Well, think of one," Tyki says. "You're the brainy one."

Rhode reaches for a stack of papers and passes them up the table to Sheril. "There's probably something in here…"

Sheril takes the papers gratefully. He drinks his coffee, eats a scone, and peruses the papers. The normal rhythm of breakfast takes over again—Rhode tries to tackle a geometry question and ends up drawing a creepy doll on the margin of the page; Jasdero combs his long golden hair, parts of which trail in his orangeade; Lulu Bell pets her cat and Tyki continues to eat.

"Who wants to visit Hamburg?" Sherils asks.

"Hamburg?" Tyki says.

"That's what I said. Are you deaf?"

"Tyki's going deaf," Jasdero says, giggling.

Tyki shoots Jasdero a disdainful look before turning his attention back to the beleaguered Sheril. "Such a boring place, dear brother."

"Why Hamburg?" Rhode asks.

"They think they found an accommodator there," Sheril says.

Lulu Bell's gaze flicker towards the papers. "You mean they suspect. So there may be nothing."

"Yes, that."

Rhode leans her sharp little chin on her intertwined fingers. "I wonder who it is."

"Do you want to go, my dear?" Sheril asks.

"Would you let me skip school?"

"Naturally," Sheril says. "This business comes first."

Rhode's grins and bites down on her crayon. The chalk bleeds red across her lips. "I'll go."

"So who else wants to accompany—"

"Shut it, Sheril," Tyki advises his brother. "Rhode is quite capable of handling one accommodator who probably doesn't even have his or her Innocence."

"But—"

"That's settled then," Lulu Bell declares. "I'm off to work. Try not to get assassinated today, Sheril."


	8. Chapter 8

Halfway through breakfast, Hevlaska groans and shivers.

Kanda's hands fly to Mugen in an instant. "What's wrong?"

"She is synchronising," Hevlaska says. "Over the distance I can still feel it…"

Allen scrambles forward, getting egg over his face in the process. "Who?"

"Time Record!" Hevlaska cries. "In Hamburg!"

"Hamburg," says Bookman. "How coincidental."

"Miranda!" Allen exchanges a startled glance with Lenalee as he wipes bits of egg off his chin and nose. "If she can remember—if she—we have to get her."

"We can leave after breakfast." Kanda finishes his mug of green tea as if the steam bothers him not at all.

There is a lull in the conversation, punctuated only by Lavi's light snores in the background.

"So," Link says conversationally, when he is done with his food, "who's going to get Miranda?"

"Me," Kanda, Allen and Lenalee each say.

"You can't all go," Link says impatiently. "Two at most, I think."

"Not me." Bookman looks towards his sleeping apprentice. "I've got to explain the situation to that young rascal over there, get him to see sense. I can't leave him alone for now."

"Not me either," Link says. "The Noah probably already know about Miranda. Two exorcists should go, just in case."

"I'll go," Allen says.

"Shut it, Beansprout, you'll just screw it up."

"I won't, BaKanda!"

"I'll go," Lenalee says, rolling her eyes.

"I'll go with Lenalee," Allen says at once. "After all, we retrieved Miranda the first time."

"Sentimental fool," Kanda says. "Fine by me if you want to die out there."

"You're equally rusty, BaKanda!"

"I don't die so easily, unlike you weaklings."

"Yeah?" Allen says. "Last I checked, you no longer have your healing thing. So you'll die as easily as any of us."

"You're wrong, idiot. It's back. Came with the synchronisation."

Link studies the group. "You know, I think it might be better for Kanda to remain behind."

"Ha!" says Allen.

"Why?" Lenalee asks.

Link looks towards the sleeping Lavi and shrugs. "To restrain him, just in case. Walker and Lenalee can handle Miranda well enough, I'd say."

* * *

This side of August, there are plenty of tourists wandering around downtown Hamburg. The gentle rain doesn't stop the tourists; they walk on, holding aloft umbrellas in all colours, and it makes for a beautiful picture.

In a little brownstone motel sitting a little way back from the curve of the pavement, Allen looks out from one of the tall, narrow windows lining the lobby and sighs. The receptionist promised to help them check in, but disappeared into the back office a while ago and hasn't yet returned.

Lenalee grabs a cracked cup from the little food bar by the check-in counter. She thinks she might as well get a cup of coffee while waiting.

"It would be great if the rain could stop," Allen says.

Lenalee stirs sugar and milk into the black coffee. Her mouth is dry, and her stomach rolls like a rickety ship; she lifts the cup to her mouth, lets the foam swirl against her lips, and sets the drink back down. "How are we ever going to find Miranda?"

"I don't know," Allen says. "I didn't expect Hamburg to be this big."

"Maybe we should walk around," Lenalee suggests, trying again to drink the coffee. She almost gags when the bitter beverage swills between her teeth and against her tongue; the beans have been roasted for far too long, and the milk is going stale.

From the corner of his eye, Allen sees a group of children in bright yellow raincoats run down the street, chasing after a woman dressed all in black. "Wait," Allen says, and glances out the window again.

The first kid points at the woman, who stumbles away with her hands pressed to the sides of her head just above her ears. Lenalee looks out the window too. "That looks familiar. Isn't she—"

Their eyes meet. There is no time for words—only time to fly out the door and across the uneven cobblestones.

* * *

Rhode swings her legs to the beat of an ancient song in an ancient language. "The Earl of Millennium is in search of you," she sings.

"Let's get of the rain," Lero says. "I'm wet!"

"No, I want to watch them." Rhode raises a finger to her chin. "And you're an umbrella, Lero. You're supposed to go out in the rain."

Below their perch on the high shingled roof, there is a blur of black and yellow. And very close behind, Allen and Lenalee chase down their quarry.

"It's almost time," Rhode says. Then she continues her song as the rain splashes down in a grey and forbidding sheet.

* * *

 

Miranda's foot—her left foot, always her left foot—catches against a raised flagstone. As she did yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that, she stumbles, raising her thin fingers as if to gain purchase by grabbing at the iron post of the nearest lamp post.

As always, her fingers slide by with mere inches to spare. There is no safety net today, and once again she hits the ground, falling straight into a puddle. The children stand and laugh, pointing fingers, as they always do, chanting that horrid rhyme of theirs.

"Go away!" she shouts, trying to wring the water out of her long black skirt. It won't do at all—she barely has any savings left, and definitely not enough money to feed herself and go to the laundromat one more time than necessary—

"Here."

Miranda stares at the hand before her nose. "Go away!"

"I'll help you up." The hand becomes two hands that grasp at Miranda's shoulders, and she finds herself lunging forward and back onto her feet.

When Miranda finally gains her bearings, she looks straight into calm eyes. They're a wintry grey, reminding her of the sea gulls her father used to love, and the call of the wild sea that laps against Hamburg's perimeter. They seem vaguely familiar, the ghost of a dream long evaporated into the mundane rhythm of life.

"Are you alright?" the boy with the grey eyes asks.

"I'm fine," Miranda says, and follows it up with a sob.

"You don't seem fine," a girl says, stepping up to the boy. "You're soaked!"

"I—thank you!" Miranda says, and quickly turns around.

"Wait," the girl says. "You're Miranda, aren't you?"

Miranda turns around to face them again. She rolls her hands into fists and brings her fists to her heart. "I don't know you—I don't owe you any money, I'm sure. I've paid off all the debts and, and—"

"Calm down, really," the boy says, his voice rich, a British accent rolling off his tongue. "I'm Allen. Allen Walker. This is Lenalee. We're here to help you. We're friends, honest."

"Help—help me? Are you from the—"

"Can we talk somewhere more private?" Lenalee asks. "Are you headed somewhere?"

"I was just going home," Miranda says, twisting the waist of her skirt. That's all the water she can squeeze out, now. "Then they—the children, I mean—came and—I mean, I'm used to it, but—that doesn't mean… wait, they're gone!"

Lenalee laughs; it is a gentle laugh. Miranda immediately feels slightly more at ease.

"I shooed them away," Lenalee says. "May we follow you back and speak to you there?"

"Of course," Miranda says, although she doesn't really mean it.

When they reach her little place, they make themselves at home at once, settling around the small battered table.

"So what do you do?" Allen asks.

"I'm in between jobs," Miranda says, trying to make tea. "You take tea, right? The English take their tea—so?"

"Yes, thank you—oh, be careful!"

It is Lenalee who catches the cups in time, just before they crack on the table's scratched surface. "Whew."

Miranda takes up a grimy rag, grey with dust and brown with scorch marks, to soap up the split milk on the floor. "I'm sorry, I'm so clumsy," she says.

"So," Allen says, when Miranda joins them at the table, "do you remember anything?"

"Remember what?"

"The past."

"The past? I—"

"Or has anything strange happened to you lately?" Lenalee prompts.

Miranda shifts her mug of water from her left to her right hand. Her forehead crinkles with the effort of digging into her memory. "Well… there was that one day… it started to rain and hasn't stopped since. It's been raining for two weeks straight!"

Lenalee pats the back of Miranda's hands. "Isn't it quite rainy in August, though?"

"Oh, you're right," Miranda says. Then her eyes cloud with a film of tears. "Oh—that day—the children didn't manage to catch up to me."

"Probably a coincidence," says Allen.

Miranda nods. The tears in her eyes spill over onto her face, and she stares at her lap.

Allen takes a sip of the tea, almost chokes on the bitterness and rancour—once he would have said that bland tea was the worst sin but now he takes that back—and manfully forces through a smile. "Anything else, Miranda?"

"I've been having nightmares," Miranda says tearfully. "Bad, bad dreams."

"Nightmares!" Lenalee says. She leans towards Miranda and slides an arm around Miranda's shaking shoulders. "Don't cry, Miranda dear. Here, dry your eyes. Let's take things slowly, okay? We're here with you, and you're safe."

Miranda blows her nose like a trumpet. "I'm sorry—sorry—I didn't mean to break down—sorry."

"Shhh," Allen says, bending down on Miranda's other side. "We're here to help, I promise."

"Tell us about these dreams?" Lenalee says.

Miranda dissolves into another flood of tears. "I—it just—it's so raw, and I'm so frightened," she says, in between ragged sobs. "I think I'm going to die, either from something bad, or from insomnia. I don't dare to sleep much nowadays, the dreams, they're so real, so vivid—I just—sorry—"

"We're here, don't worry, we'll help you," Lenalee says.

Allen nods. "Tell us about these dreams, Miranda."

"It's night usually." Miranda covers her eyes with her palms. She shakes and heaves against Lenalee's arm. "I just—it's so dark, and there are sounds, you understand, and I'm usually on a road, walking somewhere, and my feet are so painful." Here Miranda stops and hiccups.

"There, there," Lenalee says soothingly, rubbing circles on Miranda's back.

"Then these things—I don't know, they're metallic, and big, and they can fly, like aeroplanes except that they have faces and they have these spiky things pointing out—and they chase me, and shoot at me, and sometimes I bleed and someone holds me and tells me not to die. I don't know. It's always so cold, so tiring, and I wait every day to see if the nightmare comes true. I don't know what to do anymore. I should see a shrink but I don't have the money to—it's probably the start of some psychological disease! I'm sorry, am I boring you? Sorry—"

"It's okay, Miranda dear," Lenalee says. "I've had dreams like that too."

"And me," Allen adds.

"Do you remember us?" Lenalee asks. "There was a war once, and we fought in it. That's… where your memories come from."

"You mean, am I remembering something from the past?" 

"Yes."

Miranda nods. "Perhaps," she says, and her trembling hands knock over her mug.

Lenalee withdraws her arm and jumps away from the water spilling over the edge of the table.

"Oh," Miranda says. "I'm so sorry." She makes to grab for the rag again.

"Wait, let's talk first," says Allen. "Will you come with us, Miranda? We will help you."

The clock chimes seven times.

Outside the window, the rain has come to a stop. The sun sinks into the darkness, a smear of orange, pink and purple against the stretch of grey sky.

Lenalee walks to the narrow window and looks out. A bright smile blossoms on her face, and she turns back to Allen. "It's so beautiful after the rain."

"It is," Miranda agrees. "Ah, it has finally stopped raining!"

"Will you come with us?" Allen asks again.

"But I—"

"Please, come with us, Miranda," Allen says.

Behind Miranda, Lenalee mouths, _tell her a story, any story!_

"Er…" Allen says, and looks straight into Miranda's eyes. "You see, we have this thing called PTSD. Have you heard of it?"

"Yes. Why? Do I have it too?"

"That's what we all suffer from," Allen says, holding Miranda's gaze. "You need help, and we can give you that help. And we can retrain you for employment."

"Really?" Miranda says.

"Of course!" Lenalee lays a warm hand between Miranda's shoulder blades. "We're here to help."

"That's great. Thank you so much! Thank you!"

The lie is bitter in Lenalee's mouth, and Allen shrivels under the weight of their deceit, but Miranda notices nothing. She's all smiles as she bustles off to pack her things.

* * *

 

They've tied Lavi—they meaning Kanda and the strength in his arms, and Link with a coil of rope—to a rock formation that juts out across the otherwise smooth face of the cavern. Lavi's near enough to his bag and other possessions, and the rope's long enough that Lavi doesn't have to sit shackled by the jutting rock all day if he doesn't want to.

When the knot has been tied, Link says, "But he could untie it."

To which Kanda replies, "The idiot's too stiff to bend over to reach his leg."

"Really?" Link says doubtfully. "I thought he—"

"I know him well enough to say that, Inspector Two-dots."

Link's schoolmaster façade quickly melts away under the weight of a scowl. "Don't call me that. I'm not a CROW member anymore. There is no more CROW."

"If I'm still an exorcist, then you're still a CROW."

"It's not the same," Link protests. "I'm just here to help win the war. Not as a CROW."

Kanda wants to spit his contempt out onto the ground, but then Lavi shifts, the left side of his face flat against the rock. _He hasn't looked at us or spoken a word_ , Kanda realises.

"Give him some time," Link says, as if he can read Kanda's mind.

Maybe he can, Kanda thinks, staring suspiciously at Link's face.

The thin line of Link's mouth quivers, and then he turns away to discuss lore with Bookman. Kanda is left all alone with his old friend, the enigmatic Lavi Bookman.

They met centuries ago, when Kanda was young and haunted by a ghost that dragged its clawed fingers through Kanda's heart, threaded shadows through his fitful drags of sleep and knotted disdain for mankind into his harried soul. But Lavi understood then, as few had understood—the young exorcist Lavi had seen the pain and the gaping abyss in Kanda's heart, had felt the yearning for death that loomed over Kanda every single day of his life.

But this Lavi—this Lavi was a sullen thing, with no bubbly words rising to his mouth, no bright smile to bring cheer to his friends, with a mind that could not comprehend the war that is.

Silence was once enough between them, and they had enjoyed snatches of companionable silence, allowing themselves to be themselves within the spider web of a dastardly cruel war. But now, the silence stretches thin. Kanda finds that he doesn't know what to say or where to begin to say something.

And so, Kanda says softly, "You're being stupid."

Lavi blinks, because Kanda is not a soft person; Kanda doesn't whisper. He says his piece, loud and clear, and gives no fucks if he embarrasses a friend or two. Lavi's mouth opens, as if to let out a retort, like the insults he used to trade with Kanda, but then he shuts his mouth again.

Kanda sighs. "You're not making things easy for us."

"I hate lies." Lavi looks Kanda in the eye, and Kanda can read Lavi's unspoken thought: _and I can't believe you are lying to me as well_.

Kanda is tempted to say, _you're hurting Bookman_ , but he doesn't, because that would expose the fact that the old Bookman has a heart, the hypocrisy of it all. Instead, he crosses his fingers behind his back and looks away towards Hevlaska, and does not watch Lavi watching the wall.

* * *

 

Miranda puts her dusty broom away. "Are you sure you don't mind sleeping on the floor?"

Lenalee and Allen hastily assure Miranda that they don't mind at all, that they've been through worse.

"What about that room at the motel?" Miranda asks.

"We didn't have time to pay for it," Allen says.

Miranda sits on the edge of her bed, pressing down against the thin mattress. "Are you sure—"

"We're fine, Miranda," Lenalee says, shaking out her sleeping bag.

Allen eyes Lenalee's sleeping bag. "Can we share that? I didn't bring one."

Lenalee raises an eyebrow, but nods. "It's not that cold, so I'll unzip it the whole way, and we can each lie on one—"

 _Knock_.

It's a quiet sound. It's not the thundering KNOCK-KNOCK that a debt collector makes. It's not the comfortable tap-tap of a friendly hand.

"No one visits me at this hour," Miranda whispers, the quilt drawn up around her shoulders. She's pale and shaking, and she doesn't get up.

 _Knock_.

Lenalee looks at Allen. "Should we get that, do you think?"

"I don't know," Allen says hesitantly.

 _Knock_.

"Doesn't seem like he or she's about to go away," Allen says. He stands and stretches. "I guess we should check it out."

Allen grasps the doorknob and gives it a twist. The door swings open easily, revealing a dim corridor and a little flare of light to the left. Allen looks at it, curious. Then a shadow shifts, a ripple of greyness amidst the darkness.

Electric blue hair, a pleated skirt, large gleaming eyes. And then a conflagration of candles beaming down upon him, their wicks set alight. Allen raises his forearm to his eyes, but he sees nothing but a collection of bright and odd shapes for a long moment.

"Allen?" Lenalee says worriedly.

Allen hears Lenalee's light step across the floor. "Don't come over," he says softly, blinking, trying to regain his vision.

"It's too late," Rhode says, tapping a finger against her lips.

Rhode raises a slim hand; darkness envelopes them. There is time for Miranda to gasp, time for Allen and Lenalee to activate their Innocence, before they crumple to the ground.

* * *

 

Cross Marian, in this life a decorated war veteran, a purveyor of magical tricks, and a language teacher of no small repute, wakes, as he often does, in a strange bedroom. Lavender curtains dusting the floor, muting the glare of the morning light; a purple crystal by the bed; and morning glories curling up an iron stand, turning their thirsty stems towards the windows.

Cross looks down at his new friend, her brown hair falling in waves on the white pillow, a slim arm gently curving over the quilt. He pushes back the covers, shrugs on his shirt, and checks his hair in the mirror.

It's time to go.

He doesn't look back as he lets himself out of the apartment. Back in his car, he swerves through the morning traffic, a dim headache throbbing somewhere at the back of his head. Red lights turn green, and he steps on the accelerator pedal; the car thrums with speed and rushes on, purring like a cat.

He thinks back to the previous night, and feels satisfied. She was a good catch—still is, and she reminds him of someone else. But who? Everyone and their uncle knows of Cross and his habits—how he propositions comely women, how some of his students throw themselves at him with reckless abandon. Cross does feel a little tired of this lifestyle sometimes, but a lifetime of excitement can't be quenched so easily.

Cross can't quite remember who the girl reminds him of—he has had so many lady friends that their faces tend to blur into one. There was a woman once, whose warmth and quiet zeal for life kept him by her side for a long time. He struggles to remember her name, struggles to recall her features.

At the next intersection, just as the amber light turns red, the memory surfaces. By the time Cross notices, a split second after the other cars, it's too late to apply the emergency brakes. The car surges forward, nearly colliding with a van that comes at a ninety-degree angle.

 _Damn it_!

Cross floors the accelerator pedal, shooting beyond the reach of the van; both drivers thank their lucky stars.

Cross clutches at the steering wheel. Beads of perspiration dot his forehead. _Damn it_! he thinks again.

In his mind, there's a woman with a length of dark hair swaying against rich red brocade, falling almost to her waist; scallops of gold and a teardrop of glimmering jade hanging from each earlobe; gold flowers embroidered on the bosom of her dress, a silver crane taking flight above them.

She stands in a doorway, a red lantern in her hand. She reaches out with her other hand, lacquered fingernails glinting in the half-light. Her kohl-rimmed eyes are smudged with the dew of tears as she presses her hand to her coral-red lips and blows a kiss towards him. _Be safe_ , she says, softly.

She doesn't wilt, as his previous lovers have. She's like a sunflower, raising her head to the sun; she's like the lotus, taking no stain from the mud in which it is rooted. She has a quiet strength, and he loves that about her.

 _I'll be safe_ , he says, gruffly, because he wants to mean it.

By the time Cross pulls into his driveway, he knows the woman's name.

Anita.

They met in China.

It's only when he goes into his house and takes a seat on the settee that he realises he has never been to China, not in this lifetime, anyway.


	9. Chapter 9

When Allen opens his eyes, all he sees is a dark room, candles floating overhead along the contours of the ceiling. Lenalee stirs beside him, her arm warm against his. As he grows accustomed to the darkness he sees that Miranda is already awake and gnawing at her nails as she stares down at her lap.

"Hello again, Allen Walker," Road says, stepping forward. A cloud of candles follows her like a regiment of toy guards given brief life.

"Allen?" Lenalee says weakly as she nudges his arm.

Allen presses Lenalee's hand to reassure her. "Let us go, Road."

Road pauses and stares down at them. "Hmm, tell me, why should I?"

Allen stands. His legs feel like they're all flesh and no bones, a scarecrow swaying in the midst of an angry gale. But still he forces himself to stand tall, shoulders high, chest out, and ignores the quivering in his thighs, his heart galloping in his chest, the certainty of death coursing through his veins like ice. "I don't want to play games with you this time."

"Give me a good reason to release you." Road's voice is still girlish, still youthful.

"I'm not the weak Allen Walker you met all those years ago." Allen adds steel to his voice and iron to his posture. "You won't defeat us so easily this time. Let us go. I don't want to hurt you."

Road tilts her head to the side and surveys Allen through half-lidded eyes. "Oh, but you forget, the clumsy woman over there doesn't have her special clock this time."

"Allen." Lenalee pushes herself off the floor. "Wait."

Road continues, "Master Millennium is not pleased, you know. You escaped without permission."

Allen snorts. "No one ever asks permission to escape. That would be stupid. Now let us go, you monster!"

"Tyki said you might be friendlier this time," Road says, blinking slowly in the way of owls. "Seems like he thought wrong."

"Allen will never leave the Order to join the Noah!" Lenalee says angrily as she stands by Allen's side.

"He left the last time, though," Road says, her gaze turning to Lenalee. "Have you forgotten that it was I who took the blow for him? I who ran to shield Allen, I who lost my physical body when Apochryphos attacked?"

Lenalee colours but juts her chin out, arms akimbo. "That's the past. I won't let you hurt any of my friends this time."

"Oh, really? Show me."

"We'll show you all right," Allen says; he raises his left arm, and Crowned Clown appears.

* * *

Cross lights his fourth cigarette in an hour. A plate of half-eaten kebabs sits on the coffee table, alongside a mug of coffee and a bottle, half-filled, glistening a deep amber.

His fingers twitch. He remembers it all now—the past life spent fighting monsters, the smoky cities and trains that chugged along the rural landscape, the pain. The woman who loved him enough to sail on treacherous seas, who died to help the brat find him. The other woman, his friend in life and his comrade in death, whose eternal rest he desecrated so that he could harness her helpful power. And his apprentice—

 _Allen_ , he thinks. _I have to get him out of the Institute_.

So Cross picks up his phone. "I'm calling about my ward," he says. "Name's Allen Walker."

A pause. The nurse says, "He's not here."

"Of course the brat is fucking there—"

"Sir, he escaped a while ago."

"And I was not informed? Fuck, I'm his legal guardian and you tell me this only when I call?"

"I'm very sorry, sir, it must have been a—"

Cross pulls the phone away from his ear and taps the end call icon. Who to call, who might the brat be with?

Komui. Maybe the idiot's gone to stay with Lenalee.

He dials Komui's number. The phone rings—and rings and rings some more. Cross realises he has a problem beyond Komui's availability to talk just a second before he sees the man. There's a shadow in the wall, where a shadow ought not be, and the grey patch darkens into limbs and a head, pushing out from the cement and the bricks. A torso, and then the intruder looks up with the smile of a hungry wolf.

"Oh, you saw me," Tyki says, detaching himself from the wall. "Guess I'm a bit out of practice."

"You!"

"Yes, me. Damn, I was hoping you wouldn't remember me…" Tyki pushes his hair back, revealing the row of stigmata across his forehead. "It would've made my job a hell lot easier. But now, let's get on with it."

"I'm not interested in getting on with you," Cross says dismissively. He clamps his cigarette between his left index and middle fingers and glares at Tyki. "Get out of my house. You're fucking trespassing. I'll call the cops and they'll make mincemeat of you and I'll send it to the Earl with my compliments."

"I'm afraid that won't be happening," Tyki says, advancing towards Cross. "I see you don't have that weapon of yours."

"Appearances are deceiving."

"Oh, are they?" Tyki says, cocking his head. "Well, then—I don't care about appearances—I care about what's under the surface."

With that, Tyki stretches his hand, faster than Cross can react, and sinks his fingers into the other man's chest. "Heart first, or spleen? Hmm, which do you prefer, General?"

Cross scratches at his goatee. He can feel Tyki's fingers against the curves of his ribs, dipping a little into the soft, spongy spaces between the bones. It's an unpleasant sort of feeling; not painful, but it reminds him of his mortality. And Cross isn't a man who's spent too much time dwelling on his life and how it might end.

"Neither, of course," Cross says. His heart quivers like a little bird, as it has not done for years, but still Cross maintains the easy smile.

"Interesting," Tyki says. "You're still the same person you always were."

"The question is, are you?"

Tyki appears to be taken aback. "What do you mean?"

"I mean this." Cross shoves Tyki in the shoulders.

The force pushes Tyki backwards, and his hand withdraws from Cross. As he stumbles and tries to regain his footing, the back of his knees crashes against the coffee table. Glass shatters—kebabs fly—wine runs like a river across the parquet floor. By the time Tyki sits up, he's a mess. His arms are lacerated, and there's glass embedded in his skin. He scowls as blood seeps from his wounds.

"You've gotten rusty," Cross says, looking down at Tyki. "You've changed. You're slower now."

Tyki stands up, dusting glass and debris from his body. There's a dark stain on his grey pants marking the point where a kebab landed. "Unfortunately, you're the same."

"Not me," Cross says, and holds up two fingers.

"What?"

Cross mutters a string of unintelligible words. Tyki frowns, unsure, and by the time he decides to attack Cross again, he finds he can't move. Struggling doesn't help; Tyki forces his muscles to contract, forces his legs to react, but—nothing happens. He stands amidst the glass, where the coffee table once stood, and snarls at Cross.

"You really are rusty," Cross remarks. "Bye. Tell the fatso I said hi."

Tyki can't move his body from the neck down, so he thrusts his chin forward and glares at Cross with eyes like molten lava. "Just wait," he says. "We'll hunt every last one of you down!"

There's anger in Tyki's tone, and insolence, and a myriad other emotions. Cross thinks he can pick out a chord of desperation too, but he doesn't bother to look back.

Instead, Cross says, as he strides towards the front door, "I don't care what you useless bums do. Just tell the fatso to get a life, hey? You're not supposed to go around killing people in this century, if he doesn't already know."

* * *

Allen runs towards Rhode. The white cloak flutters around his legs, and the sword is heavy in his thin arms. But still he runs for all he's worth, he runs, he runs, he runs—he's nearly there—

Road snaps her fingers.

Two dark shapes rise out of the shifting shadows.

"Akuma!" Lenalee shouts, taking flight. "Allen, look out!"

Allen looks out just in time; he skids and ends up with his face mere inches from the Akuma's cherubic smile. "Level Four," he whispers.

"Level Three!" Lenalee shouts. "I'll be there soon."

With Allen and Lenalee involved in their own battles, Road skips her way towards Miranda. She slides her hand under Miranda's chin, forcing the trembling woman to look into her eyes.

"Let's play, Miranda Lotto," Road says, and smiles. "Let's go back through time, shall we?"

"No," Miranda says. "I don't want to. I don't want to!" Tears stream down her face, mingling with mucus and perspiration.

"But I'm bored," Road says, pouting. She grips Miranda's wrist, tight enough to make the older woman flinch, and bares her teeth in a wide grin.

For a moment, Miranda finds herself suffocating as she spirals through a sea of endless night. There's a choking feeling in her chest and a pyre at the back of her throat. She doesn't know whether she's falling downwards or flying upwards. There's a spray of stars, glistening in the distance, crystalline bubbles from a long dead or faraway dream, and then Miranda sees it—it glows, red and pulsing, the dream-repository of a terrible past.

The darkness recedes. Miranda finds herself in an empty, circular room. It takes exactly six paces to cross the room. _Why am I here?_ Miranda sits on the floor and cries. After some time—she can't tell how long, since there's nothing resembling a clock or a watch or even a sundial—she sits up, skirt sodden with her tears, and wipes her eyes on the back of her hand.

It occurs to her: _I have to find a way out_.

Miranda tries the door. It's locked. The window's barred, and she can barely fit one hand between the cruel iron bars.

Then the door clicks open, and a CROW member strides in, his red-and-gold cloak sweeping the floor.

"Follow me," he says.

The CROW leads Miranda down a spiral staircase and straight into Komui's office. Everyone's gathered there—exorcist and scientist alike. Miranda goes to stand beside Marie, but he doesn't turn to look at her. He faces the front, and—

 _Allen_.

He's back. He's tied to the chair in which he sits. He stares back at them with eyes the colour of the setting sun.

Komui calls for attention. "The traitor, Allen Walker," he says, and his mouth turns downwards in pain, "has been apprehended. The standing order is revoked."

The gathered members break out into harried protests. The commotion grows loud. Miranda brings her hands to her mouth. She bites down on her lips, willing herself not to cry, but the tears are already gathering in her eyes, and the room grows blurry around her.

"We shall dispose of the Fourteenth now," Leverrier says, raising a hand for quiet. "We here have judged him guilty of treason and of malicious intent by way of attempted sabotage. I pronounce his sentence. He shall be executed today, and every exorcist shall play a part in destroying this canker that grows within our ranks."

"Destroy him!" the CROW members chant, safe in their little circle, safe behind their masks.

Miranda looks around wildly. Marie is still and silent, and Miranda dares to hope. She reaches up to clutch at Marie's forearm, and says, "Please, Marie, we must stop this!"

Marie's sightless eyes are grave. "This is how it works, Miranda. I am sad, but I must do my duty."

Miranda turns away from Marie. "Lenalee," she says, "should we not protest?"

Lenalee shrugs. Her eyes are strangely vacant, her mouth a little too slack. "Not me. I have my brother to think of."

"Arystar?" Miranda pleads.

"He saved me and I must kill him. But so be it!" Krory holds his head in his hands and ignores Miranda.

One by one, Miranda's fellow exorcists walk up to Allen, grab the sacred knife, and plunge it into Allen's torso. Allen doubles over with pain. Miranda watches from the back and counts. Lenalee. Lavi. Bookman. Krory. Marie. Tiedoll. Timothy. The Generals. Even Kanda.

"Your turn, Miranda," Lavi says, pushing her forward.

"No, I can't!"

"Go ahead," Lavi says tonelessly. He looks at her with that glittering eye of his. His face is a blank stretch of skin—just pale skin, an eye, a nose and a mouth. He doesn't sound concerned, doesn't attempt to look remotely alive.

"I won't!" Miranda protests.

"You will," Lavi says, giving Miranda another push. He presses the slimy hilt of the knife into her palm. The blood blisters her skin. "Go on, then. You're the last one."

"He's already dying! Show him some mercy!"

"Why show mercy to a Noah?"

"You were friends," she says accusingly.

"Not anymore, Miranda." Lavi's expression doesn't change. "If you're a real exorcist, and loyal to the Order, then you'll do this. Or else we'll turn on you. Your choice."

There truly is something odd about Lavi. He's a Bookman, Miranda knows, and he's not supposed to show emotion, but this is truly not— _Oh_.

The flecks of blood shimmer like rubies on the knife's blade. In a flash, Miranda knows. She's clumsy and stupid, but not that stupid, for heaven's sake. She remembers the story Lavi told—the real Lavi, not this caricature looking at her with an odd, closed-off kind of face—about how Road invaded his mind and his memories. She knows how Road hides her true self.

In this dream world, Lavi goads her towards killing Allen. The others hang back, eyes vacant and silent, blood splattering their uniforms. They do not speak to her. But Lavi does.

Miranda takes a deep breath. She doesn't know if she's strong enough to do this, strong enough to stand her ground and go on the offensive. She's always been on the defense—Time Record sees to that—and she has never ever killed anyone, not even an Akuma, in cold blood.

Lavi leans towards her. "You're the last one, Miranda."

Miranda exhales. Her tears are warm against her cheeks, and when she rolls her tongue around her teeth she can taste the sea and her own blood. "Will you accompany me?" Miranda asks.

Lavi nods. Together they walk towards Allen. Miranda's shaking so badly that the knife cuts across her uniform, nicking a hole in her trousers. When they reach Allen, the poor boy's already in such a dreadful state that he doesn't lift his head to look at them. He draws ragged breaths, hands on his wounds, shoulders shaking like a tree in a violent storm.

"Go on," Lavi says. His green eye glimmers with an unholy light.

Miranda wraps her left hand around her right wrist. It's now or never. She waits the length of three heartbeats, and then swings the knife upwards and outwards. The knife meets flesh; Miranda closes her eyes and twists the handle, pushing it onwards with reckless abandon. Something wet splatters on her hands but Miranda doesn't look, can't look.

Lavi gasps, his larger hands clamping down over Miranda's. "You…"

Miranda finally opens her eyes. Lavi's in a half-squat, blood bubbling at the sides of his mouth. She pulls away, stumbles backwards, and falls with a hard thump.

"You knew," Lavi says, his limbs turning a charred grey. "How?"

"I remembered the stories. And you were the only one urging me to harm Allen. Lavi—Lavi—he would never do that."

"That's what you think!" Lavi's façade melts away, and Road's back. Her limbs turn to ash, falling off in bits and pieces, and her face has lost its skin.

The bile rises in Miranda's throat at the sight of the grey bones. "Monster," she whispers, crossing herself. "You do not know us."

"You've won this time," Road says, struggling to stand, joints creaking like the hinges of an old house. "But we'll be back! And this time, Master Millennium will have the victory. There will be no more respite!" Road laughs—once, twice—then crumples onto the floor. Nothing is left of her but charred clothes and a handful of dust and ashes.

* * *

Bleary-eyed, Komui stares across the table at Cross. "It's midnight, Marian. People sleep at night, you know."

"Not you, Komui. I saw you from the road. So don't start bitching."

Komui yawns. "I'm really sleepy."

Cross reaches into the platter of assorted nuts lying on the table; he tosses a handful of pistachios into his mouth and grimaces. The nuts are soft and a little stale. "I don't see Lenalee."

"She's on a school trip, she'll be back next week. Why?"

"Allen's missing."

"Oh?" Komui says, coming alive. "When? How?"

Cross can almost see the gears moving in Komui's head. He knows what Komui's thinking, can hear the words as they pass through Komui's overcrowded brain— _has the filthy boy gone to meet Lenalee, is my dear Lenalee in danger_ …

Cross says, "I don't know, don't really care either, but I need to reach him. Think your Lenalee knows where he is?"

"Maybe," Komui says, biting his lip. "You could call her…"

"I asked Tiedoll, he doesn't know where the fuck Kanda went traipsing off to. Bookman's not answering and he's not at home. I broke into their place and guess what, the two Bookmans are gone, and no one knows where either." Cross shoves his empty hand before Komui's face.

"That's strange. Maybe there's something going on."

"That," Cross says, helping himself to a can of beer, "is what I'm saying. And those four brats are thick as thieves."

"Not anymore, not since…" Komui pauses, his eyes sad. Then he adds, as if to reassure himself, "And Lenalee wouldn't lie to me. I'm her dearest brother, her only relative."

"Keep telling yourself that." Cross wants to sigh. No one knows where anyone else is, and he—and all the other Order members—are just about to be murdered by the crazy Noahs. What is a person to do in such awful circumstances?

Komui excuses himself. Cross swallows a few more nuts out of boredom, savouring the saltiness of the cashews and peanuts. Then his phone vibrates on the clean counter.

"Who's this?" Cross asks.

"Me."

It's a scratchy sort of voice, weighed down and raspy with age. Cross thinks for a moment, then says, "Bookman. Took you long enough."

"We don't have great connection here. Too out of the way."

"Where are you?"

"Outside London."

"Why?"

Bookman ignores the question. "How are things with you, Marian?"

"Oh me, I'm good, but shit is starting to hit the fan. Fuck, Bookman, they're trying to murder me, the damned assholes!"

"They? Who?"

"Fucking Tyki Mikk, that's who. If the fatso doesn't keep Mikk's ass in line I'll shove his slimy face into—"

"Join us out here," Bookman says. "I'll text you the directions."

"Do it sooner rather than later, then. I'll like to keep my life. Is the brat there?"

"Allen… was here. He'll be back soon. In a few days."

"Where's he? He's got some nerve, running off like this, and not fucking telling me—"

"We'll explain when you get here. Bring whoever you can, even if they don't remember a single thing." Bookman hangs up.

When Komui returns, Cross says, "Pack up, Komui."

Komui stumbles over a stool. "Pack? Pack what?"

"We're leaving."

"I'm not leaving," Komui says. "I've got work to do and Lenalee's coming back next week. Look for a different vacationing partner."

"It's only two or three days. Come on, I really need help. You've taken leave this week."

"But I really have to—"

"It's a matter of life or death, Komui. Please. I hate to beg and you know it."

Komui stares at Cross, brows furrowed. At last, he gives Cross a clipped nod. "Okay. What do I bring?"

"Clothes," Cross says vaguely. "Valuables. You know. Things like that. Your passport and keys and papers and whatever you can't leave behind."

"So many things for a few days?"

"You never know when things might get complicated," Cross says. He pulls out a cigarette. "Like I said, life or death."

* * *

Bookman sits by Lavi, spreading a few tattered books across the ground. "Look," he says.

Lavi turns his head away. "I've told you Gramps, I want the real explanation, not some mumbo-jumbo that doesn't make any sense."

"This is the truth, boy. I can swear it."

"No, I hate that you're trying to trick me. Is this part of my training? Is this? Are you trying to see how easily swayed I might be?"

"Not at all. I see I have taught you well."

Lavi focuses his gaze on Bookman. "So you admit that this is a test."

Bookman sighs. "It is a test indeed. But not the kind of test you're thinking about."

"I don't get you, Gramps."

Bookman steadies his voice and touches the books. "Will you at least read these? Please? You don't have to believe—oh, hell, just take them to be fairy tales. Will that do?"

Lavi stares at Bookman. Bookman doesn't swear much, at least not in Lavi's hearing, so when he does it's always a shock. For a moment, Lavi doesn't know quite what to think.

"Please," Bookman repeats, almost tenderly this time.

An unreadable expression flickers across Lavi's face. "Fine," he says at last. "I'll read these critically and analytically. I won't believe in tall tales."

Bookman's only reply is: "Good."


	10. Chapter 10

The bag of groceries in Miranda's hands falls to the ground. Apples and oranges roll outwards, disappearing into the darkness.

Miranda clasps her palms over her mouth. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry! I'm so clumsy."

Allen and Lenalee hurry after the fruits. Thankfully they're taking a rest on a large ledge, and the fruits don't have enough momentum to traverse the distance and roll down the stairs.

"I'll carry it," Allen tells Miranda, when they've returned the fruits to the paper bag. "We're almost there, anyway."

Miranda looks mortified. She further presses her nails into her mouth, staring at Allen and his four bags of groceries with teary eyes. "I'm sorry," she says again. "I really want to help. I didn't mean to—"

"Don't worry about it." Lenalee starts to tug Miranda along the stairs.

From where they are, they can already see the glimmer of light that stretches out from Hevlaska's cavern.

 _Home_ , Allen thinks, and smiles. He turns to Lenalee. "We're home."

"Yes, home," Lenalee says.

But her face scrunches up, eyes tightening and lips pressing themselves into a straight line. Almost at once she relaxes her face and puts up a smile, but Allen knows what it is that Lenalee hasn't put into words. She misses Komui, and the thought of going home without him being there to greet her with a big smile and a warm hug brings back bad memories of their separation.

Children sent off to fight a terrible war never do shake off their fear and their loneliness, after all. Allen knows that all too well. So Allen reaches out and grasps Lenalee's hand.

"Welcome home," Allen says. "We made it, Lenalee."

"Yes, we made it," Lenalee says. She squeezes Allen's hand, smiles—a real smile this time—and adds, "Welcome home."

Allen looks towards Miranda. "Welcome home, Miranda."

Miranda, who has been looking away from them, as if she feels herself an intruder on their private conversation, flushes. "Yes—yes," she says. "I'm glad to be back."

"We're glad to have you back," Lenalee says, briskly walking now. "Let's go greet the others. They must be worried about us."

They step into the cavern. Then two things happen.

The first: Lenalee squeals, as she has never done before. The Dark Boots come to life, and in the space of a heartbeat, Lenalee is at Komui's side.

"Brother," she says, and flings her arms around him.

Komui's reaction is equal in enthusiasm and he embraces his sister enthusiastically. After a moment, his face darkens. "Lenalee? Aren't you supposed to be on a school trip? Did you lie to your brother?"

"Well, if I told you the truth you wouldn't have let me go!"

"But I'm your brother!"

"And I'm an exorcist!"

Meanwhile, the second meeting happens nearby. Allen walks up to Cross and glares at his guardian. "Why are you here?"

"Brat, I should be asking you that question. How dare you run off without informing me!"

Allen steps closer to Cross, all the better to stare down the man. "Well, you let them lock me up!"

"I thought you were crazy too! You acted like it." Cross wrinkles his nose and shoves Allen in the shoulder. "Get away from me, you're so dirty and dusty and you need a fucking bath. How did the Lee girl stand it? Bah."

Allen doesn't move away. "You're one to talk, Master," he says, falling back into his old speech pattern. "We just fought Akuma and rescued Miranda. You haven't contributed!"

"I escaped from Tyki," Cross says dismissively. "Don't imagine you can beat me. I'm a general."

"There are no such things as generals now," Allen says. "Only exorcists."

"Shut up, you fool, you're giving me a headache."

It is Miranda, forgotten for these few moments, who breaks the tension in the room. "Excuse me," she says.

All the eyes in the room turn to Miranda, and she quivers. She offers a weak smile, and gestures at the bags of groceries. "Oh, forgive me, I didn't mean to interrupt. But what should I do with these things?"

"Give them to me," Link says, always the one to take control of a situation. "I'll put them away."

Link disappears with the bags. Miranda is left to return the stares of the other exorcists.

"Get your Innocence," Kanda says. He jabs a finger towards Hevlaska.

"Oh, yes, pardon me, I will go at once."

Kanda watches Miranda walk away. "She's still such a nuisance."

"Don't be such an arse," Allen says. "She's new."

"She's a cry-baby. Only Marie can stand her, and who knows where he is."

"How's Lavi?" Allen asks.

"Back there."

"He still can't remember?"

Kanda glares at Allen. "Isn't the answer bloody obvious?"

* * *

"So much for your skills, Tyki. You actually let Cross Marian escape." Lulu Bell pauses in peeling the dark red apple in her hands and shoots a glare at Tyki.

Tyki lounges in his chair. "He's a general. I can't defeat him by myself."

"His memories just returned," Lulu says. The light from the chandelier glints off the sharp paring knife, and the long strip of apple skin curls over the wooden board like a trail of dried blood. "You could have defeated him easily enough if you _tried_."

"Says you." Tyki doesn't bother to hide the bitterness spilling into his voice. " _You_ didn't volunteer to go on either mission."

Sheril looks up from a thick report. "The Earl knows. I'm sorry, I had to tell him for your own good."

"Earl's gonna scold Tyki!" Jasdero says, swinging his spoon around.

Bits of ice cream land on Skinn's face. "Give me that," he says, and snatches Jasdero's spoon. And Jasdero's plate of ice cream. "Mmm, yum."

Devit sticks his tongue out and pretends to retch. "Disgusting—"

The double doors open, and everyone falls into a tense silence. Even Lulu Bell lays aside the apple and the paring knife.

Then Road's slim form appears in the space between the doors. She doesn't skip in or dance in the way she used to, skirt flaring out around her and footsteps light; the defeat in Hamburg destroyed her temporary form, and knitting a new body together takes a lot out of her.

"Oh, it's just you," Lulu says.

Sheril hastens to Road's side; he bends over, hands caressing her hair. "How are you feeling, my dear Road?"

"I'm fine."

Sheril lays a hand on Road's forehead and peers anxiously into her eyes. "Your colour's a little off. Are you sure you're alright? Shouldn't you be resting? Did the Earl summon you too? I told him that you ought—"

"Really, I'm fine," Road says. She smiles and looks around the room at the rest of her relatives, searching. Finally, Road's gaze lands on Tyki. "Master Millennium's not pleased with you, _Uncle_ Tyki."

Tyki sits up straight. The movement causes the lighter on his lap to clatter to the ground and roll across the carpet. "Shit! Is he—"

"Good evening, my lovelies." The Earl is never subtle, and his entrances are always timed to make an impact.

"You're back, Earl," Sheril says, gesturing to a nearby Akuma servant to take the Earl's umbrella. "Was it successful?"

"Yes, I've resolved the problem at the plant. Now, shall we all have a seat? We have much to discuss today, my dear Noahs." The Earl settles into the chair; his fists rest on the tortured, screaming faces carved into the end of each armrest. "I've had reports from Sheril. I must say I am rather disappointed."

Tyki leans forward. "I'm sorry, Earl, I—"

"You didn't try hard enough, did you, my dear boy?"

"I—"

"No matter. It is over. I am not pleased with you, but you shall have another chance to do your work. For now, try to work harder on your skills."

"Yes, Earl." Tyki heaves a sigh of relief and slides down in his chair.

The Earl turns to Road.

Sheril sees it, and intervenes. "Please, Earl, Road is still not feeling too well. I'm sorry that she—"

"I know Road has worked hard." The Earl laughs. "I wasn't about to scold her. Why would I? Now, Wisely, be a dear and pass me the sugar pot."

"You shouldn't take too much sugar," Sheril says. "Your blood sugar level is a little high, yes?"

The Earl pretends not to hear. He drops six cubes of sugar into his coffee and stirs it in. "I've been thinking, my dears. We need a new plan to attack."

"Chase down the accommodators one by one?" Tyki suggests.

The Earl sighs. "You're not much of a planner, are you, my dear little Tyki?"

"Little Tyki," Jasdero says, laughing so hard that he ends up literally rolling across the floor.

"Don't dirty the carpet," Lulu Bell says.

Tyki looks bemused. He glances around the table, unconcerned. "What's wrong with my suggestion?"

"It'll eat up too much of our resources," Sheril says. He frowns and taps his fingers against the table. "What with the hiccups we've been having recently, it's not a good idea. We don't have the same number of Akuma and Skulls we used to have."

Road pipes in: "Do they still have our Ark?"

"I don't know what happened to the White Ark," the Earl says. "Look into it, won't you, Sheril?"

"Yes, of course."

The Earl hums under his breath for a long moment. Then he says, "We should wait till they all gather at the site of the old Order. Then we attack."

"Sounds like a good plan, Earl," Lulu says. "At least we'll save some energy on tracking them down. There're too many suspects and we don't know which ones are the true accommodators."

"Leave them alone for now, all of you," the Earl says. He finally drinks his coffee, and allows himself to smile.

* * *

While Miranda undergoes synchronisation with Time Record, Cross pulls Allen aside. "Open the Ark Gate."

Allen squirms away from Cross. "I can't! I've tried but the Gate won't open."

"Try again now."

"Here?" Allen asks. Behind them, green fog thickens. "I—"

"Try it. You must focus. Remember what I told you long ago. You must try to operate the Ark with your heart."

Allen closes his eyes. His mind fills with a soft humming, the melody rising and falling. Slowly but surely, the song becomes steady and harmonious, peaceful and sorrowful at the same time. The rhythm thrums in his head, and he taps his fingers against his thighs.

Cross shifts beside Allen, and whispers, "Think of the song with your heart!"

Allen searches through his memories, and finds that it's as difficult as trying to wade through a swamp. He thinks of Mana lying by the roadside, a grey carriage disappearing into the evening fog. A lantern swings wildly in the constable's hand, throwing a weak golden light onto Mana's pale, mangled face as blood pools on the cobblestones.

There's Kanda, and Alma in his arms, held tight against his chest, smiling as they fall through a shattering gate; there's Lavi, red hair resplendent in the purple hour, waving a hand in farewell as he leaves with Bookman for a private Bookman-only journey; there's Lenalee, liquefied Innocence in her cupped palms, drinking, drinking, and then blood spurting from her feet…

There's Krory too, and Miranda, mourning for their friends; there's Cross, wine glass in his hand and a finger on Judgment's trigger and later on, his blood splattering the windows; there's Link, dead and yet not so.

"You have to save them," Cross whispers again. "Open the Ark Gate."

Allen grinds his teeth and hears the song looping in his head. "Please work," he says, and it wrenches his heart to wish so.

He opens his eyes and sees a glittering gate. "I actually did it… You were right, Master."

"Hmm," Cross says.

Cross sounds uncertain, and that in itself causes Allen to stare at the gate, wondering if he's gone wrong somewhere.

One breath. Two breaths. _Three_.

The gate shatters into slivers of light, a mirror crashing against the floor. Shards of light glimmer as they scatter and then dissipate.

There's a sharp intake of breath. Then Cross sighs, weary. He reaches out, fingers widespread, as if by doing so he could catch the scattered light and weave it back into a gate. "It's too unstable."

Allen shrugs and closes his eyes.

Cross rests a heavy palm on Allen's shoulder. "Wait, you fool. Don't try to open another gate."

"Why not?"

"It might be dangerous." Cross stares at the place where the gate had opened, passes his hands through the air, mimicking the shape of a cross, and shakes his head. "Leave the Ark alone for now."

"We can't do that! Not now, when I can clearly operate the Ark!"

"Are you really as stupid as you look? Do you want to die, brat?"

Allen grabs Cross by the wrist. "Tell me what this is all about."

Cross glares down at Allen. "Don't touch me, idiot apprentice! Let go."

"Not until you explain this!"

Cross shoots a sideways glance at Allen. "You have been repressing the Fourteenth's memories, haven't you? You've never had much sense."

Allen's eyes widen. "I—"

"Have you felt the Fourteenth awake in you?"

"Not yet, not since I started to remember—"

"There's your answer, boy." Cross notices the thinning of the green fog and starts to walk away.

"Isn't it a good thing? You were the one who told me I'd kill someone I love once Neah takes over my body!"

"Did I? Maybe I did."

"I don't want Neah to come back!" Allen shouts.

Cross wheels around. "You're wrong there. You have to let him in again. You want the Ark, then learn to embrace the memories of the Fourteenth. Neah has to fight the Earl."

" _I_ will fight the Earl," Allen says, fists curled into balls at his side.

"He is the Destroyer of Time, Marian." It is Hevlaska who speaks this time. The fog is entirely gone now, and Hevlaska's waving tentacles can be seen tapping against the ground. "Allen Walker, I mean. He has to be the one who ends the Earl."

Cross shrugs before he reaches into his pocket and brings out a cigarette. "This time around, make sure you learn how to control the memories. But first you have to accept the pain and let Neah out of whatever prison you chucked him into. Am I clear, brat?"

"I will not kill any one of my friends," Allen insists. "I told you then, and I'll tell you again now. I'll forge my own path."

Cross lets his gaze linger on Allen. "Alright. Show me. Show me that you can operate the gate, show me how you're able to master the Fourteenth's bloody intent."

* * *

Over the next month, the other Black Order members regain their memories.

Komui's past life flashes before him one morning as they sit by the portable stove. He collapses and lies in his sleeping bag for an hour before getting up and announcing that he's fine and now he's going to take charge of them all. He also says something about building a robot or two to assist them all, but Lenalee quickly shushes her brother and no one ever mentions robots in Komui's hearing again.

Krory's the next one to arrive, then Marie and Tiedoll stumble upon the cave together. Reever joins the party with Johnny and Tapp in tow. Klaud Nyne follows after, and soon her pet monkey bounces around the cave like an energetic child. Timothy comes looking for them, inexplicably drawn by his memories and his Innocence, bringing Emilia with him.

Bak—Sokaro—Jiji Lujun—Jeryy—Lou Fa—Toma—one by one, they all find their way back to the place that spawned their histories and rewrote the journeys of their lives.

When Bak arrives, he twirls a stone and conjures Fou. Now they have a new gatekeeper and guardian of their little fortress.

The scientists and finders go on reconnaissance trips through the tunnels and caves, always bringing at least one exorcist with them. One fine day Jake Russell trips across a box, and Number 65's cold and peeling metallic body tumbles out like a jack-in-the-box.

They take him back and restart the electrical circuit. All goes well—Number 65 opens his rusted eyes, and smiles at them as if he had seen them merely the day before. Komui blinks away tears and hands over a bottle of bicycle oil and a scruffy rag.

The great cavern now bustles with life—they reinforce the place and also set up shop in other tunnels and caves. Only Lavi sulks in the darkness, unable to believe that he has not been kidnapped by a cult but by a legitimate religious order.

Allen fares only slightly better. For, in all this time, Allen fails to make headway with the Ark.

"Try again," Cross says, blowing smoke rings into the air. He's as adept at that as he ever was. Apparently it isn't a skill that is easily forgotten.

Allen glares at Cross. "If you think it's so easy, why don't you try?"

"I'm not authorized to be the Pianist, you fool. Now try again."

Allen sighs and closes his eyes. His head hurts with the effort he has expended this day; it's already five in the afternoon and he has been trying to open a stable gate for two hours. It doesn't help that he spent the entire morning sparring with Kanda, Lenalee, Link and Marie, and now his muscles are sore and his body cries out for soft sheets and—oops, he doesn't actually have a bed here.

Bookman over to the side cave where Allen and Cross sit on rocks, their heads almost brushing against the hanging rock. "Don't force the boy, Marian."

"We don't have much time."

"Master is right," Allen says, clenching his fists. "Why can't I do it? It used to be so easy after I got the hang of it."

Bookman squats and holds out a twig. "Why don't you draw the symbols on the ground? Maybe it'll help you concentrate."

Allen looks doubtfully at the twig. "I—"

Cross smacks Allen on the back of his head and grabs the twig. He presses the tip into the ground to draw the symbols, etching out the lines with enough force to break the twig. "Damn."

"I have another," Bookman says.

"Here goes," Cross says, and adds to the pattern on the ground. When he is done, he sits back and admires his work. "Hey, it looks good. I could have been an artist."

Allen rolls his eyes. "And how does this help?"

"I don't know, don't look at me," Cross says. "Bookman?"

Bookman shrugs and taps his pencil against his notebook. "It makes the pattern easier to visualise. Doesn't it?"

Cross hits Allen between his shoulder blades. "Try again, idiot apprentice. You'd better get it right this time or no dinner for you."

Allen huffs, but he closes his eyes to concentrate. This time, the pattern— _Mana's_ _pattern_ —glows resolute in his mind's eye. Music swirls in his ears, and he taps his fingers against the ground. Memories of the past flow through his head, and he feels his mind connect to something. There's light flooding through the soft skin of his eyelids, and he thinks he might just have succeeded this time.

There's a brief moment of ecstasy, of satisfaction, and then the light winks out.

Allen opens his eyes to the light of a single candle. He waits, watches, as the shadows shift and crawl, as dust motes dance before him. The place, wherever it is, smells as musty as a forgotten dungeon, and something squeaks in one of the corners beyond the reach of the candlelight.

He tries to move his hands, and finds that they are tied to his side, and he is tied to his chair. He tries his legs; they too are tied together.

 _Oh, damn_ , Allen thinks. _How did I get here?_

"Allen."

Allen tries to put steel into his voice, but it comes out a little raspy anyway. "Who's there? I can't—I can't see you!"

"Allen." A breeze ruffles through Allen's hair.

"Who're you? Show yourself!"

"Allen." This time, the shadows ripple, and a dark shape disentangles itself from the darkness. "You have finally let me in again. What took you so long?"

Allen stares in disbelief as Neah stands before him. "I thought—"

"You thought I was gone from your mind just because the Earl shifted the timeframe of the battle?" Neah laughs and crosses his arms across his chest. "That isn't how it works, my dear boy."

"This can't be happening."

Neah smiles at Allen. "I believe you have something I want."

"I'm not letting you take over this body. Don't even think about it."

"There's no other way. Stop resisting."

Allen's face contorts into a mask of fury and hatred as he speaks. "Let me go!"

"So you do realise you're tied up. Why would I let you go? We have to defeat the Earl. Time is running out…"

"I can defeat him!"

"No you can't," Neah says sadly. "I couldn't, you know. Even after all I did, all I learnt, all the plans I made…"

"We have a plan this time. The Order will defeat him."

"Oh, don't try to fool me, Allen." Neah runs a hand through his wavy hair and moves back into the darkness. "I'm in your head. I know what the situation is like out that. There is no longer an Order, just a bunch of renegade fighters like yourself. You do realise that you can't use the Ark without allowing me some entry into your mind?"

"Then we won't use the bloody Ark."

Neah chuckles and steps back into the circle of light around the flickering candle. "It's impossible to not use the Ark when you could. Is your pride really that important?"

"I will save this world on my own terms," Allen says, pushing against his bonds.

He thinks, _it would be good if the ropes untie themselves_ , and then he finds his hands free and looks down to see the ropes on the ground, coiled like sleeping snakes.

"Playtime's over," Neah says, shimmering at the edges. "But you can be sure I will be back. After all, I can bide my time, Allen."

Allen rushes at Neah, to do something—though he doesn't know what—Neah disappears like a displeased ghost, there one moment and gone the next. Allen catches nothing but thin air in his fingers.

The floor jolts under him, and he falls, falls, _falls_. When the world rights itself again, he's lying on his back in the cave, and both Bookman and Cross are staring down at him. Neither man is smiling.

"What's going on?" Allen asks, sitting up. His head throbs.

"You fell over," Cross says.

"The gate stayed open for quite a while," Bookman added.

Cross slams his palm against Allen's forehead. "No fever. Good. What happened just now?"

"I—I don't know, I just blacked out."

"Don't lie, boy," Cross says. He puts his face close to Allen, so close that Allen can see the faint crinkles at the edges of Cross's eyes.

"I saw Neah."

Cross lets out a sigh. "And?"

"And we had an argument."

"Naturally," Bookman says. "You need the Fourteenth to be awake before you can open your gates."

"No, I can't let him just—" Allen shrugs. "He _can't_."

Cross turns away, mumbling something about fool boys and the adverse effects of being too prideful.

"Just so you know," Allen says, watching Cross stomp away into the tunnel, "I'm going to put Neah back to sleep.

Cross shouts something, but the tunnel muffles the sounds, and neither Bookman nor Allen can make out the words.

Bookman throws a sidelong glance at Allen. From the side, the old man looks like a wise eagle about to fall asleep in his eyrie. "How, may I ask, will you shut the Fourteenth away?"

Allen shrugs again. 


End file.
